were the ones I just told you about. That was the god-damned cleanest motel room I've ever printed. I mean, I even put on the laser. Didn't see a thing but wipe marks where the room had been cleaned up. And if you ask me, Harry, that wasn't the kinda place the management cared too much about cleanliness."
"You told Sheehan this, right?"
"Yeah, I told him when I got done. I was thinking, you know, it being Christmas night that they were going to say I was full of shit and just trying to get home to the family. But I told 'em and they just said, fine, that'll be all, good night, Merry Christmas. I left. Fuck it."
Bosch thought about Sheehan and Chastain and Irving. Sheehan was a competent investigator. But with those two hovering over him, he could have made a mistake. They had gone into the motel room one hundred percent sure it was a suicide. Bosch would have done the same. They even found a note. After that they would have probably had to find a knife in Moore's back to change their minds. The lack of other prints in the room, no serial number on the shotgun. These were things that should've been enough to cut the percentage of their assuredness back to fifty-fifty. But they hadn't made a dent in their assumption. Harry began to wonder about the autopsy results, if they would back the suicide conclusion.
He stood up once more, thanked Donovan for the information and left.
He took the stairs down to the third floor and walked into the RHD suite. Most of the desks lined in three rows were empty, as it was after five o'clock. Sheehan's was among those that were deserted in the Homicide Special bullpen. A few of the detectives still there glanced up at him but then looked away. Bosch was of no interest to them. He was a symbol of what could happen, of how easily one could fall.
"Sheehan still around?" he asked the duty detective who sat at the front desk and handled the phone lines, incoming reports and all the other shitwork.
"Gone for the day," she said without looking up from a staff vacation schedule she was filling out. "Called from the ME's office a few minutes ago and said he was code seven until the A.M."
"There a desk I can use for a few minutes? I have to make some phone calls."
He hated to ask for such permission, having worked in this room for eight years.
"Just pick one," she said. She still didn't look up.
Bosch sat down at a desk that was reasonably clear of clutter. He called the Hollywood homicide table, hoping there would still be someone there. Karen Moshito answered and Bosch asked if he had any messages.
"Just one. Somebody named Sylvia. No last name given."
He took the number down, feeling his pulse quicken.
"Did you hear about Moore?" Moshito asked.
"You mean the ID? Yeah, I heard."
"No. The cut is screwed up. Radio news says the autopsy is inconclusive. I never heard of a shotgun in the face being inconclusive."
"When did this come out?"
"I just heard it on KFWB at five."
Bosch hung up and tried Porter's number once more. Again there was no answer and no tape recording picked up. Harry wondered if the broken-down cop was there and just not answering. He imagined Porter sitting with a bottle in the corner of a dark room, afraid to answer the door or the phone.
He looked at the number he had written down for Sylvia Moore. He wondered if she had heard about the autopsy. That was probably it. She picked up after three rings.
"Mrs. Moore?"
"It's Sylvia."
"This is Harry Bosch."
"I know"
She didn't say anything further.
"How are you holding up?"
"I think I'm okay. I . . . I called because I just want to thank you. For the way you were last night. With me."
"Oh, well, you didn't—it was . . ."
"You know that book I told you about last night?"
"The Long Goodbye?"
"There's another line in it I was thinking about. 'A white knight for me is as rare as a fat postman.' I guess nowadays there are a lot of fat postmen." She laughed very softly, almost like her crying. "But not too many white knights. You were last night."
Bosch didn't know what to say and just tried to envision her on the other end of the silence.
"That's very nice of you to say. But I don't know if I deserve it. Sometimes I don't