After a while a memory washed over me and somehow I smiled. It was one of my last clear memories of my father, the greatest lawyer of his time. An antique glass ball – an heirloom from Mexico passed down through my mother’s family – had been found broken beneath the Christmas tree. My mother brought me to the living room to view the damage and to give me the chance to confess my guilt. By then my father was sick and wasn’t going to get better. He had moved his work – what was left of it – home to the study next to the living room. I didn’t see him through the open door but from that room I heard his voice in a sing-song nursery rhyme.

In a pickle, take the nickel…

I knew what it meant. Even at five years old I was my father’s son in blood and the law. I refused to answer my mother’s questions. I refused to incriminate myself.

Now I laughed out loud as I looked at the city of dreams. I leaned down, elbows on the railing, and bowed my head.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I whispered to myself.

The song of the Lone Ranger suddenly burst from the open door behind me. I stepped back inside and looked at the cell phone left on the table with my keys. The screen said PRIVATE NUMBER. I hesitated, knowing exactly how long the song would play before the call went to message.

At the last moment I took the call.

“Is this Michael Haller, the lawyer?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“This is Los Angeles police officer Randall Morris. Do you know an individual named Elaine Ross, sir?”

I felt a fist grip my guts.

“Lanie? Yes. What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Uh, sir, I have Miss Ross up here on Mulholland Drive and she shouldn’t be driving. In fact, she sort of passed out after she handed me your card.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. The call seemed to confirm my fears about Lanie Ross. She had fallen back. An arrest would put her back into the system and probably cost her another stay in jail and rehab.

“Which jail are you taking her to?” I asked.

“I gotta be honest, Mr. Haller. I’m code seven in twenty minutes. If I take her down to book her, I’m looking at two more hours and I’m tapped on my overtime allowance this month. I was going to say, if you can come get her or send somebody for her, I’m willing to give her the break. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you, Officer Morris. I’ll come get her if you give me the address.”

“You know where the overlook is above Fryman Canyon?”

“Yes, I do.”

“We’re right here. Make it quick.”

“I’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

Fryman Canyon was only a few blocks from the converted garage guesthouse where a friend allowed Lanie to live rent free. I could get her home, walk back to the park and retrieve her car afterward. It would take me less than an hour and it would keep Lanie out of jail and her car out of the tow lot.

I left the house and drove Laurel Canyon up the hill to Mulholland. When I reached the top, I took a left and headed west. I lowered the windows and let the cool air in as I felt the first pulls of fatigue from the day grab me. I followed the serpentine road for half a mile, slowing once when my headlights washed across a scruffy coyote standing vigil on the side of the road.

My cell phone buzzed as I had been expecting it to.

“What took you so long to call, Bosch?” I said by way of a greeting.

“I’ve been calling but there’s no cell coverage in the canyon,” Bosch said. “Is this some kind of test? Where the hell are you going? You called and said you were done for the night.”

“I got a call. A… client of mine got busted on a deuce up here. The cop’s giving her a break if I drive her home.”

“From where?”

“The Fryman Canyon overlook. I’m almost there.”

“Who was the cop?”

“Randall Morris. He didn’t say whether he was Hollywood or North Hollywood.”

Mulholland was a boundary between the two police divisions. Morris could work out of either one.

“Okay, pull over until I can check it out.”

“Pull over? Where?”

Mulholland was a winding two-lane road with no pull-over spots except for the overlooks. If you pulled over anywhere else, you would get plowed into by the next car to come around the bend.

“Then, slow down.”

“I’m already here.”

The Fryman Canyon overlook was on the Valley side. I took a right to turn in and drove right by the sign that said that the parking area was closed after sunset.

I didn’t see Lanie’s car or a police cruiser. The parking area was empty. I checked my watch. It had been only twelve minutes since I had told Officer Morris that I would be there in less than fifteen.

“Damn!”

“What?” Bosch asked.

I hit the heel of my palm on the steering wheel. Morris hadn’t waited. He’d gone ahead and taken Lanie to jail.

“What?” Bosch repeated.

“She’s not here,” I said. “And neither is the cop. He took her to jail.”

I would now have to figure out which station Lanie had been transported to and probably spend the rest of the night arranging bail and getting her home. I’d be wrecked in court the next day.

I put the car in park and got out and looked around. The lights of the Valley spread out below the precipice for miles and miles.

“Bosch, I gotta go. I have to try to find-”

I saw movement in my peripheral vision to the left. I turned and saw a crouching figure coming out of the tall brush next to the parking clearing. At first I thought coyote but then I saw that it was a man. He was dressed in black and a ski mask was pulled down over his face. As he straightened from the crouch, I saw that he was raising a gun at me.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What is-”

“Drop the fucking phone!”

I dropped the phone and raised my hands.

“Okay, okay, what is this? Are you with Bosch?”

The man moved quickly toward me and shoved me backwards. I stumbled to the ground and then felt him grab the back of my jacket’s collar.

“Get up!”

“What is-?”

“Get up! Now!”

He started pulling me up.

“Okay, okay. I’m getting up.”

The moment I was on my feet I was shoved forward and crossed through the lights at the front of my car.

“Where are we going? What is-?”

I was shoved again.

“Who are you? Why are you-?”

“You ask too many questions, lawyer.”

He grabbed the back of my collar and shoved me toward the precipice. I knew it was almost a sheer drop-off at the edge. I was going to end up in somebody’s backyard hot tub – after a three-hundred-foot high dive.

I tried to dig my heels in and slow my forward momentum but that resulted in an even harder shove. I had velocity now and the man in the mask was going to run me off the edge into the blackness of the abyss.

“You can’t-”

Suddenly there was a shot. Not from behind me. But from the right and from a distance. Almost simultaneously, there was a metal snapping sound from behind me and the man in the mask yelped and fell into the brush to the left.

Then came voices and shouting.

“Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon!”

“Get on the ground! Get down on the ground!”

I dove facedown to the dirt at the edge of the precipice and put my hands over my head for protection. I heard more yelling and the sound of running. I heard engines roaring and vehicles crunching across the gravel. When I opened my eyes, I saw blue lights flashing in repeated patterns off the dirt and brush. Blue lights meant cops. It meant I was safe.

“Counselor,” a voice said from above me. “You can get up now.”

I craned my neck to look up. It was Bosch, his shadowed face silhouetted by the stars above him.

“You cut that one pretty close,” he said.