make a call. I kept a clean record because I knew a lot of policemen, honey. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

She didn’t look away when she said it. All these years in the straight life and she still had a whore’s pride. She could talk about the low points of her life without flinching or batting an eye. It was because she had made it through and there was dignity in that. Enough to last the rest of her life.

“Do you mind if I smoke, Harry?”

“No, not if I can.”

They took out cigarettes and Bosch got up to light them.

“You can use that ashtray on the side table. Try not to get ashes on the rug.”

She pointed to a small glass bowl on the table at the other end of the couch. Bosch reached over for it and then held it with one hand while he smoked with the other. He looked down into it as he spoke.

“The policemen you knew,” he said, “and who she probably knew, you don’t remember any names?”

“I said it was a long time ago. And I doubt they had anything to do with this, with what happened to your mother.”

“Irvin S. Irving. Do you remember that name?”

She hesitated a moment as the name rolled around in her mind.

“I knew him. I think she did, too. He was on the beat on the Boulevard. I think it would have been hard for her not to know him…but I don’t know. I could be wrong.”

Bosch nodded.

“He was the one who found her.”

She hiked her shoulders in a what’s-that-prove gesture.

“Well, somebody had to find her. She was left out there in the open like that.”

“What about a couple of vice guys, Gilchrist and Stano?”

She hesitated before answering.

“Yes, I knew them…they were mean men.”

“Would my mother have known them? In that way?”

She nodded.

“What do you mean that they were mean? In what way?”

“They just…they just didn’t care about us. If they wanted something, whether it was a little piece of information you might have picked up on a date or something more…personal, they just came and took it. They could be rough. I hated them.”

“Did they—”

“But could they have been killers? My feeling at the time, and now, is no. They weren’t killers, Harry. They were cops. True, they were bought and paid for, but it seemed everybody was. But it wasn’t like it is today where you read the paper and you see some cop on trial for killing or beating or whatever. It’s—sorry.”

“It’s okay. Anybody else you can think of?”

“No.”

“No names?”

“I put that all out of my mind a long time ago.”

“Okay.”

Bosch wanted to take out his notebook but he didn’t want to make this seem like an interview. He tried to remember what else he had read in the murder book that he could ask about.

“What about this guy Johnny Fox?”

“Yes, I told those detectives about him. They got all excited but then nothing ever happened. He was never arrested.”

“I think he was. But then he was let go. His fingerprints didn’t match the killer’s.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Well, that’s news to me. They never told me anything about any fingerprints.”

“On your second interview—with McKittrick, you remember him?”

“Not really. I just remember that there were police, you know? Two detectives. One was smarter than the other, that’s what I remember. But I don’t remember which one was which. It seemed like the dumber one was in charge and that was par for the course in those days.”

“Well, anyway, McKittrick talked to you the second time. In his report he said you changed your story and you told about this party in Hancock Park.”

“Yes, the party. I didn’t go because that…Johnny Fox hit me the night before and I had a bruise on my cheek. It was gorgeous. I played around with makeup but I couldn’t do anything about the swelling. Believe me there wasn’t much business in Hancock Park for a party girl with a knot on her face.”

“Who was having the party?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t know if I even knew whose party it was.”

Something about the way she answered bothered Bosch. Her tone had changed and it came across as almost a rehearsed answer.

“Are you sure don’t remember?”

“Of course, I’m sure.” Katherine stood up. “I think I’m going to get some water now.”

She took his glass to refill and left the room again. Bosch realized that his familiarity with the woman, his emotion in seeing her again after so long, had blocked most of his