The explanation felt hollow to me as I said it. On an intellectual level I understood and believed the argument, every word of it. But on a father-daughter level I felt like one of my clients, squirming on the witness stand. How could I get her to believe it when I wasn’t sure I believed it anymore myself?

“Have you helped any innocent people?” my daughter asked.

This time I didn’t look in the mirror.

“A few, yes.”

It was the best I could honestly say.

“Mom’s made a lot of bad people go to jail.”

I nodded.

“Yes, she has. I used to think we were a great balancing act. What she did and what I did. Now…”

There was no need to finish the thought. I turned the radio on and hit the preset button that tuned in the Disney music channel.

The last thing I thought about on the drive home was that maybe grown-ups were just as easy to read as their children.

Twenty-one

After dropping my daughter off at school Thursday morning I drove directly to Jerry Vincent’s law offices. It was still early and traffic was light. When I got into the garage adjoining the legal center, I found that I almost had my pick of the place – most lawyers don’t get into the office until closer to nine, when court starts. I had all of them beat by at least an hour. I drove up to the second level so I could park on the same floor as the office. Each level of the garage had its own entrance into the building.

I drove by the spot where Jerry Vincent had been parked when he was shot to death and parked farther up the ramp. As I walked toward the bridge that connected the garage to the Legal Center, I noticed a parked Subaru station wagon with surfboard racks on the roof. There was a sticker on the back window that showed the silhouette of a surfer riding the nose of a board. It said ONE WORLD on the sticker.

The back windows on the wagon were darkly tinted and I couldn’t see in. I moved up to the front and looked into the car through the driver’s side window. I could see that the backseat had been folded flat. Half the rear area was cluttered with open cardboard boxes full of clothes and personal belongings. The other half served as a bed for Patrick Henson. I knew this because he was lying there asleep, his face turned from the light into the folds of a sleeping bag. And it was only then that I remembered something he had said during our first phone conversation when I had asked if he was interested in a job as my driver. He had told me he was living out of his car and sleeping in a lifeguard stand.

I raised my fist to knock on the window but then decided to let Patrick sleep. I wouldn’t need him until later in the morning. There was no need to roust him. I crossed into the office complex, made a turn and headed down a hallway toward the door marked with Jerry Vincent’s name. Standing in front of that door was Detective Bosch. He was listening to his music and waiting for me. He had his hands in his pockets and looked pensive, maybe even a little put out. I was pretty sure we had no appointment, so I didn’t know what he was upset about. Maybe it was the music. He pulled out the earbuds as I approached and put them away.

“What, no coffee?” I said by way of a greeting.

“Not today. I could tell you didn’t want it yesterday.”

He stepped aside so I could use a key to open the door.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“If I said no, you’d ask anyway.”

“You’re probably right.”

I opened the door.

“So then, just ask the question.”

“All right. Well, you don’t seem like an iPod sort of guy to me. Who were you listening to there?”

“Somebody I am sure you never heard of.”

“I get it. It’s Tony Robbins, the self-help guru?”

Bosch shook his head, not rising to take the bait.

“Frank Morgan,” he said.

I nodded.

“The saxophone player? Yeah, I know Frank.”

Bosch looked surprised as we entered the reception area.

“You know him,” he said in a disbelieving tone.

“Yeah, I usually drop by and say hello when he plays at the Catalina or the Jazz Bakery. My father loved jazz and back in the fifties and sixties he was Frank’s lawyer. Frank got into a lot of trouble before he got straight. Ended up playing in San Quentin with Art Pepper – you’ve heard of him, right? By the time I met Frank, he didn’t need any help from a defense attorney. He was doing good.”

It took Bosch a moment to recover from my surprise knowledge of Frank Morgan, the obscure heir to Charlie Parker who for two decades squandered the inheritance on heroin. We crossed the reception area and went into the main office.

“So how’s the case going?” I asked.

“It’s going,” he said.

“I heard that before you came and saw me yesterday, you spent the night in Parker Center sweating a suspect. No arrest, though?”

I moved around behind Vincent’s desk and sat down. I started pulling the files out of my bag. Bosch stayed standing.

“Who told you that?” Bosch asked.

There wasn’t anything casual about the question. It was more of a demand. I acted nonchalant about it.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I must’ve heard it somewhere. Maybe a reporter. Who was the suspect?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Then, what is my business with you, Detective? Why are you here?”

“I came to see if you had any more names for me.”

“What happened to the names I gave you yesterday?”

“They’ve checked out.”

“How could you check them all out already?”

He leaned down and put both hands on the desk.

“Because I’m not working this case alone, okay? I have help and we checked out every one of your names. Every one of them is in jail, dead or was not worried about Jerry Vincent anymore. We also checked out several of the people he put away as a prosecutor. It’s a dead end.”

I felt a real sense of disappointment and realized that maybe I had put too much hope in the possibility of one of those names from the past belonging to the killer, and his arrest being the end of any threat to me.

“What about Demarco, the gun dealer?”

“I took that one myself and it didn’t take long to scratch him off the list. He’s dead, Haller. Died two years ago in his cell up at Corcoran. Internal bleeding. When they opened him up they found a toothbrush shiv lodged in the anal cavity. It was never determined whether he’d put it up there for safekeeping himself or somebody else did it for him, but it was a good lesson for the rest of the inmates. They even put up a sign. Never put sharp objects up your ass.”

I leaned back in my seat, as much repelled by the story as by the loss of a potential suspect. I recovered and tried to continue in nonchalant form.

“Well, what can I tell you, Detective? Demarco was my best shot. Those names were all I had. I told you I can’t reveal anything about active cases, but here’s the deal: There’s nothing to reveal.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“I mean it, Detective. I’ve been through all of the active cases. There is nothing in any of them that constitutes a threat or reason for Vincent to feel threatened. There is nothing in any of them that connects to the FBI. There is nothing in any of them that indicates Jerry Vincent stumbled onto something that put him in harm’s way. Besides, when you find out bad things about your clients, they’re protected. So there’s nothing there. I mean, he wasn’t representing mobsters. He wasn’t representing drug dealers. There wasn’t anything in-”

“He represents murderers.”

“Accused murderers. And at the time of his death he had only one murder case – Walter Elliot – and there isn’t anything there. Believe me, I’ve looked.”

I wasn’t so sure I believed it as I said it but Bosch didn’t seem to notice. He finally sat down on the edge of the chair in front of the desk, and his face seemed to change. There was an almost desperate look to it.