“The doctor said you have a severe concussion but the skull is not fractured. Minor laceration.”

“Could’ve fooled me. My head feels like the Goodyear blimp with a hole in it.”

“How many stitches?”

“I think he said eighteen.”

“He said you’ll probably have headaches and keep the knot up there and the eye hemorrhages for a few days. It’ll look worse than it is.”

“Well, nice to know he’s telling somebody what’s going on. I haven’t heard anything from him. Just the nurses.”

“He’ll be in in a minute. He was probably waiting for you to come out of it a little more.”

“Come out of what?”

“You were a little dazed when we got up there to you, Harry. You sure you want to talk about this now? It can wait. You’re hurt and need to take it-”

“I’m okay. I want to talk. You been by the scene at Park La Brea?”

“Yes, I was there. I was there when we got the call from Mount Olympus. I’ve got your briefcase in the car, by the way. You left it there, didn’t you? With Conklin?”

He started to nod but stopped because it made things swirl.

“Good,” he said. “There’s something there I want to keep.”

“The photo?”

“You looked through it?”

“Bosch! You must be groggy. It was found at the scene of a crime.”

“Yeah, I know, sorry.”

He waved off his objection. He was tired of fighting.

“So, the crew working the scene up on the hill already told me what happened. At least, the early version based on the physicals. What I’m not clear about is what got you up there. You know, how all of this figures. You want to run it down for me or wait until maybe tomorrow?”

Bosch nodded once and waited a moment for his mind to clear. He hadn’t tried to collect the story into one cohesive thought yet. He thought about it some more and finally gave it a shot.

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, I want to read you your rights first.”

“What, again?”

“It’s just a procedure so it doesn’t look like we’re cutting any slack to one of our own. You’ve got to remember, you were at two places tonight and at both somebody took a big fall. It doesn’t look good.”

“I didn’t kill Conklin.”

“I know that and we have the security guard’s statement. He says you left before Conklin took the dive. So you’re gonna be okay. You’re clear but I have to follow procedure. Now, you still want to talk?”

“I waive my rights.”

Irving read them to him from a card anyway and Bosch waived them again.

“Okay, then, I don’t have a waive form. You’ll have to sign that later.”

“You want me to tell the story?”

“Yes, I want you to tell the story.”

“Okay, here we go.”

But then he stopped as he tried to put it into words.

“Harry?”

“Okay, here it is. In 1961 Arno Conklin met Marjorie Lowe. He was introduced by local scumbucket Johnny Fox, who made his living off making such introductions and arrangements. Usually for money. This initial meeting between Arno and Marjorie was at the St. Pat’s party at the Masonic Lodge on Cahuenga.”

“That’s the photo in the briefcase, right?”

“Right. Now, at that first meeting, according to Arno ’s story, which I believe, he didn’t know that Marjorie was a pro and Fox was a pimp. Fox arranged the introduction because he probably saw the opportunity and had one eye on the future. See, if Conklin knew it was a pay-to-play sort of thing, he would have walked away. He was the top county vice commando. He would have walked away.”

“So he didn’t know who Fox was either?” Irving asked.

“That’s what he said. He just said he was innocent. If you find that hard to take, the alternative is harder; that this prosecutor would openly consort with these types of people. So, I’m going with Arno ’s story. He didn’t know.”

“Okay, he didn’t know he was being compromised. So what was in it for Fox and…your mother?”

“Fox is easy. Once Conklin went with her, Fox had a nice hook into him and he could reel him in whenever he wanted. Marjorie is something else and I’ve been thinking about it but it still isn’t clear. But you can say this, most women in that situation are looking for a way out. She could have played along with Fox’s plan because she had her own plan. She was looking for a way out of the life.”

Irving nodded and added to the hypothesis.

“She had a boy in the youth hall and wanted to get him out. Being with Arno could only help.”

“That’s right. The thing of it was, Arno and Marjorie did something none of the three of them expected. They fell in love. Or at least Conklin did. And he believed she did, too.”

Irving took a chair in the corner, crossed his legs and stared thoughtfully at Bosch. He said nothing. Nothing about his demeanor indicated he was anything else but totally interested and believing in Bosch’s story. Bosch’s arm was getting tired of holding the ice pack up and he wished he could lie down. But there was only the table in the examination suite. He continued the story.

“So they fall in love and their relationship continues and somewhere along the line she tells him. Or maybe Mittel did some checking and told him. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that at some point Conklin knew the score. And again, he surprises everybody.”

“How?”

“On October twenty-seven, nineteen sixty-one, he proposes marriage to Marj-”

“He told you this? Arno told you this?”

“He told me tonight. He wanted to marry her. She wanted to marry him. On that night back then, he finally decided to chuck it all, to risk losing everything he had to gain the one thing he wanted most.”

Bosch reached into his jacket on the table and took out his cigarettes. Irving spoke up.

“I don’t think this is a-nothing, never mind.”

Bosch lit a smoke with his lighter.

“It was the bravest act of his life. You realize that? That took balls to be willing to risk everything like that…But he made a mistake.”

“What?”

“He called his friend Gordon Mittel to ask him to go with them to Vegas to be best man. Mittel refused. He knew it would be the end of a promising political career for Conklin, maybe even his own career, and he wanted no part of it. But then he went further than just refusing to be best man. See, he saw Conklin as the white horse on which he would be able to ride into the castle. He had big plans for himself and Conklin and he wasn’t going to sit back and let some…some Hollywood whore ruin it. He knew from Conklin’s call that she had gone home to pack. So Mittel went there and intercepted her somehow. Maybe told her that Conklin had sent him. I don’t know.”

“He killed her.”

Bosch nodded and this time he didn’t go dizzy.

“I don’t know where, maybe in his car. He made it look like a sex crime by tying the belt around her neck and tearing up her clothes. The semen…it was already there because she had been with Conklin…After she was dead, Mittel took the body to the alley near the Boulevard and put her in the trash. The whole thing stayed a secret for a lot of years after that.”

“Until you came along.”

Bosch didn’t answer. He was savoring his cigarette and the relief of the end of the case.

“What about Fox?” Irving asked.

“Like I said, Fox knew about Marjorie and Arno. And he knew they were together the night before Marjorie was found dead in that alley. That knowledge gave Fox a powerful piece of leverage over an important man, even if the man was innocent. Fox used it. In who knows how many ways. Within a year he was on Arno ’s campaign payroll. He was hooked on him like a bloodsucking leech. So Mittel, the fixer, finally stepped in. Fox died in a hit and run while supposedly handing out Conklin campaign fliers. Would’ve been easy to set up, make it look like it was an accident and the driver just fled. But that’s no surprise. The same guy who worked the Marjorie Lowe case worked the hit and run. Same result. Nobody ever arrested.”