“What did you hit me with, man?”

“Tire iron. Hope it put a splinter in your skull, but it don’t matter if it did or didn’t.”

“Well, I think it did anyway. Congratulations.”

Bosch stopped at one of the French doors as if he expected it to be opened for him. Outside the party tent was gone. And out near the edge of the overhang he saw Mittel standing with his back turned to the house. He was silhouetted by the lights of the city extending out into infinity from below.

“Open it.”

“Sorry, I thought…never mind.”

“Yeah, never mind. Just get out there. We don’t have all night.”

Out on the lawn, Mittel turned around. Bosch could see he was holding the badge wallet with his ID in one hand and the lieutenant’s badge in the other. The gunman stopped Bosch with a hand on his shoulder, then moved back to his six-foot distance.

“So, then, Bosch is the real name?”

Bosch looked at Mittel. The former prosecutor turned political backdoor man smiled.

“Yes. That’s the real name.”

“Well, then, how do you do, Mr. Bosch?”

“It’s Detective, actually.”

“Detective, actually. You know, I was wondering about that. Because that’s what this ID card says but then this badge says something completely different. It says lieutenant. And that’s curious. Wasn’t that a lieutenant I read about in the papers? The one who was found dead and without his badge? Yes, I’m sure it was. And wasn’t his name, Harvey Pounds, the same name that you used when you were parading around here the other night? Again, I think so, but correct me if I am wrong, Detective Bosch.”

“It’s a long story, Mittel, but I am a cop. LAPD. If you want to save yourself a few years in prison, you’ll get this old fuck with the gun away from me and call me an ambulance. I’ve got a concussion, at least. It might be worse.”

Before speaking, Mittel put the badge in one of the pockets of his jacket and the ID wallet in the other.

“No, I don’t think we’ll be making any calls on your behalf. I think things have gone a little too far for humanitarian gestures like that. Speaking of the human existence, it’s a shame that your play here the other night cost an innocent man his life.”

“No. It’s a fucking crime you killed an innocent man.”

“Well, I was thinking more along the lines that it was you who killed him. I mean, of course, you are ultimately responsible.”

“Just like a lawyer, passing the buck. Should’ve stayed out of politics, Gordie. Stuck to the law. You’d probably have your own TV commercials by now.”

Mittel smiled.

“And what? Given up all of this?”

He spread his arms to take in the house and the magnificent view. Bosch followed the arc of his arm to look at the house but he was really trying to get a bead on the other man, the one with the gun. He spotted him standing five feet directly behind him, the gun at his side. He was still too far away for Bosch to risk making a move. Especially in his condition. He moved his arm slightly and felt the billiard ball nesting in the crook of his elbow. It was reassuring to him. It was all he had.

“The law is for fools, Detective Bosch. But I must correct you. I don’t really consider myself to be in politics. I consider myself to be just a fixer. A solver of problems of any kind for anyone. Political problems just happen to be my forte. But now, you see, I have to fix a problem that is neither political nor someone else’s. This one is my own.”

He raised his eyebrows as though he could hardly believe it himself.

“And that’s why I have invited you here. Why I asked Jonathan to bring you along. You see, I had an idea that if we watched Arno Conklin, our mystery party crasher of the other night would eventually show up. And I wasn’t disappointed.”

“You’re a clever man, Mittel.”

Bosch turned his head slightly so that he could see Jonathan in his peripheral vision. He was still out of reach. Bosch knew he had to draw him closer.

“Hold your ground, Jonathan,” Mittel said. “Mr. Bosch is not one to get excited about. Just a minor inconvenience.”

Bosch looked back at Mittel.

“Just like Marjorie Lowe, right? She was just a minor inconvenience. Just a nobody who didn’t count.”

“Now, that’s an interesting name to bring up. Is that what this is about, Detective Bosch?”

Bosch stared at him, too angry to speak.

“Well, the only thing I can admit to is that I did use her death to my advantage. I saw it as an opportunity, you could say.”

“I know all about it, Mittel. You used her to get control of Conklin. But eventually even he saw through your lies. It’s over now. It doesn’t matter what you do to me here, my people will be coming. You can count on it.”

“The old give-up-the-place-is-surrounded-ploy. I don’t think so. This badge business…something tells me that you’ve exceeded your bounds on this one. I think maybe this is what they call an unofficial investigation and the fact that you used a false name before and were carrying a dead man’s badge tend to bear me out…I don’t think anyone is coming. Are they?”

Bosch’s mind raced but he drew a blank and remained silent.

“I think you’re just a small-time extortionist who stumbled onto something somehow and wants a payoff to go away. Well, we’re going to give you a payoff, Detective Bosch.”

“There are people who know what I know, Mittel,” Bosch blurted. “What are you going to do, go out and kill them all?”

“I’ll take that suggestion under advisement.”

“What about Conklin? He knows the whole story. Anything happens to me, I guarantee he’ll go right to the cops.”

“As a matter of fact, you could say Arno Conklin is with the police right now. But I don’t think he’s saying much.”

Bosch dropped his head and slumped a little. He had guessed that Conklin was dead but had hoped he was wrong. He felt the billiard ball move in his sleeve and he folded his arms again to cover up.

“Yes. Apparently, the former district attorney threw himself from his window after your visit.”

Mittel stepped aside and pointed out into the lights below. Far off Bosch could see the cluster of lighted buildings that were Park La Brea. And he could see blue and red lights flashing at the base of one of the buildings. It was Conklin’s building.

“Must have been a truly traumatic moment,” Mittel continued. “He chose death rather than give in to extortion. A principled man to the end.”

“He was an old man!” Bosch yelled angrily. “Goddamnit, why?”

“Detective Bosch, keep your voice down or Jonathan will have to lower it for you.”

“You’re not getting away this time,” Bosch said in a lower, tighter, controlled voice.

“As far as Conklin goes, I assume the final declaration will be suicide. He was very sick, you know.”

“Right, a guy with no legs walks over to the window and decides to throw himself out.”

“Well, if the authorities don’t believe that, then maybe they will come up with an alternate scenario when they find your fingerprints in the room. I’m sure you obliged us by leaving a few.”

“Along with my briefcase.”

That hit Mittel like a slap across the face.

“That’s right. I left it there. And there’s enough in it to bring them up this mountain to see you, Mittel. They’ll come for you!”

Bosch yelled the last line at him as a test.

“Jon!” Mittel barked.

Almost before the word was out of Mittel’s mouth, Bosch was clubbed from behind. The impact came on the right side of the neck and he went down to his knees, careful to keep his arm bent and the heavy ball in place. He slowly, more slowly than was needed, got up. Since the impact had been on the right, he assumed that Jonathan had hit him with his gun hand.

“By providing me with the location of the briefcase, you have answered the most important question I had,” Mittel said. “The other, of course, was what was in the briefcase and how it would concern me. Now, the problem I have is that without the briefcase or the ability to get it I have no way of checking the veracity of what you tell me here.”