and then her head jerked up.

“Nineteen sixty-one? You want a case from—I don’t know where nineteen sixty-one is.”

“It’s here. I’ve looked at the file before. I guess there was someone else clerking here back then, but it was here.”

“Well, I’ll look. You’re going to wait?”

“Yeah, I’ll wait.”

This seemed to disappoint her but Bosch smiled at her in the most friendly way he could muster. She took the paper with her and disappeared into the stacks. Bosch walked around the small waiting area by the counter for a few minutes and then stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. He was nervous for a reason he could not exactly place. He kept moving, pacing.

“Harry Bosch!”

He turned and saw a man approaching him from the helicopter hangar. He recognized him but couldn’t immediately place him. Then it hit him: Captain Dan Washington, a former Hollywood patrol skipper who was now commander of the aerosquadron. They shook hands cordially and Bosch immediately hoped Washington did not know of his ISL situation.

“Howzit going in the ’wood?”

“Same old same old, Captain.”

“You know, I miss that place.”

“You’re not missing much. How is it with you?”

“Can’t complain. I like the detail but it’s more like being an airport manager than a cop, I guess. It’s as good a place to lay low as any other.”

Bosch recalled that Washington had gotten into a political scrap with the department weight and taken the transfer as a means of survival. The department had dozens of out-of-the-way jobs like Washington’s, where you could lay up and wait for your political fortunes to change.

“What’re you doing over here?”

There it was. If Washington knew Bosch was on leave, then admitting he was pulling an old case file would be admitting he was violating the leave order. Still, as his position in the aerosquad attested, Washington was not a straight-line company man. Bosch decided to run the risk.

“I’m just pulling an old case. I got some free time and thought I’d check a few things.”

Washington narrowed his eyes and Bosch knew that he knew.

“Yeah…well, listen, I gotta run, but hang in there, man. Don’t let the book men get you down.”

He winked at Bosch and moved on.

“I won’t, Captain. You either.”

Bosch felt reasonably sure Washington wouldn’t mention their meeting to anybody. He stepped on his cigarette and went back inside to the counter, privately chastising himself anyway for having gone outside and advertised that he was there. Five minutes later he started hearing a squeaking sound coming from one of the aisles between the stacks. In a moment Geneva Beaupre appeared pushing a cart with a blue three-ring binder on it.

It was a murder book. It was at least two inches thick, dusty, and with a rubber band around it. The band held an old green checkout card to the binder.

“Found it.”

There was a note of triumph in her voice. It would be the major accomplishment of her day, Bosch guessed.

“Great.”

She dropped the heavy binder on the counter.

“Marjorie Lowe. Homicide, 1961. Now…” She took the card off the binder and looked at it. “Yes, you were the last to take this out. Let’s see, that was five years ago. You were with Robbery-Homicide then…”

“Yes. And now I’m in Hollywood. You want me to sign for it again?”

She put the card down in front of him.

“Yes. Put your ID number there, too, please.”

He quickly did as he was told and he could tell she was studying him as he wrote.

“A lefty.”

“Yeah.”

He slid the card back across the counter to her.

“Thanks, Geneva.”

He looked at her, wanting to say something else, but decided it might be a mistake. She looked back at him and a grandmotherly smile formed on her face.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Detective Bosch, but I wish you good luck. I can tell it’s important, you coming back to this after five years.”

“It’s been longer than that, Geneva. A lot longer.”

Chapter Five

BOSCH CLEARED ALL the old mail and carpentry books off the dining room table and placed the binder and his own notebook on top of it. He went to the stereo and loaded a compact disc, “Clifford Brown with Strings.” He went to the kitchen and got an ashtray, then he sat down in front of the blue murder book and looked at it for a long time without moving. The last time he’d had the file, he had barely looked at it as he skimmed through its many pages. He hadn’t been ready then and had returned it to the archives.

This time,