the guy was going to off himself, why try to hide it for so long? Why not do it and let them find your body, end of story?"
"That's a tough one," Irving said. "Near as I can figure it, he wanted to cut his wife a break."
Bosch raised his eyebrows. He didn't get it.
"They were separated," Irving said. "Maybe he didn't want to put this on her during the holidays. So he tried to hold up the news a couple weeks, maybe a month."
That seemed pretty thin to Bosch but he had no better explanation at the moment. He could think of nothing else to ask at the moment. Irving changed the subject, signaling that Bosch's visit to the crime scene was over.
"So, Detective, how is the shoulder?"
"It's fine."
"I heard you went down to Mexico to polish your Spanish while you mended."
Bosch didn't reply. He wasn't interested in this banter. He wanted to tell Irving that he didn't buy the scene, even with all the evidence and explanations that had been gathered. But he couldn't say why, and until he could, he would be better off keeping quiet.
Irving was saying, "I have never thought that enough of our officers—the non-Latins, of course—make a good enough effort to learn the second language of this city. I want to see the whole depart—"
"Got a note," Donovan called from the room.
Irving broke away from Bosch without another word and headed to the door. Sheehan followed him into the room along with a suit Bosch recognized as an Internal Affairs detective named John Chastain. Harry hesitated a moment before following them in.
One of the ME techs was standing in the hallway near the bathroom door with the others gathered around him. Bosch wished he hadn't thrown away his handkerchief. He kept the cigarette in his mouth and breathed in deeply.
"Right rear pocket," the tech said. "There's putrefaction but you can make it out. It was folded over twice so the inside surface is pretty clean."
Irving backed out of the hallway holding a plastic evidence bag up and looking at the small piece of paper inside it. The others crowded around him. Except for Bosch.
The paper was gray like Moore's skin. Bosch thought he could see one line of blue writing on the paper. Irving looked over at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Bosch, you will have to go."
Harry wanted to ask what the note said but knew he would be rejected. He saw a satisfied smirk on Chastain's face.
At the yellow tape he stopped to light another cigarette. He heard the clicking of high heels and turned to see one of the reporters, a blonde he recognized from Channel 2, coming at him with a wireless microphone in her hand and a model's phoney smile on her face. She moved in on him in a well-practiced and quick maneuver. But before she could speak Harry said, "No comment. I'm not on the case."
"Can't you just—"
"No comment."
The smile dropped off her face as quick as a guillotine's blade. She turned away angrily. But within a moment her heels were clicking sharply again as she moved with her cameraman into position for the A-shot, the one her report would lead with. The body was coming out. The strobes flared and the six cameramen formed a gauntlet. The two medical examiner's men, pushing the covered body on a gurney, passed through it on the way to the waiting blue van. Harry noticed that a grim-faced Irving, walking stoicly erect, trailed behind—but not far enough behind to be left out of the video frame. After all, any appearance on the nightly news was better than none, especially for a man with an eye on the chief's office.
After that, the crime scene began to break up. Everybody was leaving. The reporters, cops, everybody. Bosch ducked under the yellow tape and was looking around for Donovan or Sheehan when Irving came up on him.
"Detective, on second thought, there is something I need you to do that will help expedite matters. Detective Sheehan has to finish securing the scene here. But I want to beat the media to Moore's wife. Can you handle next-of-kin notification? Of course, nothing is definite but I want his wife to know what is happening."
Bosch had made such a show of indignation earlier, he couldn't back away now. He wanted part of the case; he got it.
"Give me the address," he said.
A few minutes later Irving was gone and the uniforms were