shirts. Bosch noticed they were cleared to visit the High Power block on the tenth floor. High Power was where the most dangerous criminal suspects were placed while awaiting trial or to be shipped out to state prisons following guilty verdicts.
They began walking down a hall to the jail elevator. "You got the kid in High Power?" Bosch asked.
"Yeah. I know a guy. Told him one day, that's all we needed. The kid's going to be shitless. He's going to tell you everything he knows about Dance."
They took the security elevator up, this one operated by a deputy. Bosch figured it had to be the worst job in law enforcement. When the door opened on ten they were met by another deputy, who checked their badges and had them sign in. Then they moved through two sets of sliding steel doors to an attorneys' visiting area, which consisted of a long table with benches running down both sides of it. There was also a foot-high divider running lengthwise down the table. At the far end of the table a female attorney sat on one side, leaning toward the divider and whispering to a client, who cupped his ears with his hands to hear better. The muscles on the inmate's arms bulged and stretched the sleeves of his shirt. He was a monster.
On the wall behind them was a sign that read NO TOUCHING, KISSING, REACHING ACROSS THE DIVIDER. There was also another deputy at the far end, leaning against the wall, his own massive arms folded, and watching the lawyer and her client.
As they waited for the deputies to bring out Tyge, Bosch became aware of the noise. Through the barred door behind the visiting table he could hear a hundred voices competing and echoing in a metallic din. There were steel doors banging somewhere and occasionally an unintelligible shout.
A deputy walked up to the barred door and said, "It'll be a few minutes, fellas. We have to get him out of medical."
The deputy was gone before either of them could ask what happened. Bosch didn't even know the kid but felt his stomach tighten. He looked over at Rickard and saw he was smiling.
"We'll see how things have changed now," the narc cop said.
Bosch didn't understand the delight Rickard seemed to take in this. For Bosch, it was the low end of the job, dealing with desperate people and using desperate tactics. He was here because he had to be. It was his case. But he didn't get it with Rickard.
"So, how come you're doing this? What do you want?"
Rickard looked over at him.
"What do I want? I want to know what's going on. I think you're the only one that might know. So if I can help out, I'll help out. If it costs this kid his asshole, then that's the cost. But what I want to know from you is what is happening here. What did Cal do and what's going to be done about it?"
Bosch leaned back and tried to think for a few moments about what to say. He heard the monster at the end of the table start to raise his voice, something about not accepting the offer. The deputy took a step toward him, dropping his arms to his sides. The inmate went quiet. The deputy's sleeves were rolled up tight to reveal his impressive biceps. On his bulging left forearm Bosch could see the "CL" tattoo, almost like a brand on his white skin. Harry knew that, publicly, deputies who had the tattoo claimed the letters stood for Club Lynwood, after the sheriff's station in the gang-infested L.A. suburb. But he knew the letters also stood for chango luchador , monkey fighter. The deputy was a gang member himself, albeit one sanctioned to carry weapons and paid by the county.
Bosch looked away. He wished he could light a cigarette but the county had passed a no-smoking code, even in the jail. It had nearly caused an inmate riot.
"Look," he said to Rickard, "I don't know what to tell you about Moore. I'm working on it but I'm not, you know what I mean? Thing is, it runs across two cases I do have. So, it's unavoidable. If this kid can give me Dance, then it's a help. I could look at Dance for my two cases, maybe even Moore's. But I don't know that. I do know, and they will go public with this today, that Moore looks like a homicide. What