with the detectives on the case and that allowed them the chance to ingratiate themselves and hopefully procure the investigators as future sources.

Russell had written five stories in a week about one of Bosch’s cases. It was a domestic violence case in which a husband had disregarded a temporary restraining order and gone to his separated wife’s new apartment on Franklin. He carried her to the fifty-floor balcony and threw her off. He went over next. Russell had talked to Bosch repeatedly during the stretch of stories. The resultant dispatches were thorough and complete. It was good work and she began to earn Bosch’s respect. Still, he knew that she hoped that the stories and her attention would be the building blocks of a long reporter/investigator relationship. Since then not a week had gone by that she didn’t call Bosch once or twice to bullshit, pass along departmental gossip she had picked up from other sources, and ask the one question all reporters live and die by: “Anything going on?”

She answered on the first ring and Bosch was a little surprised she was in so early. He was planning on leaving a message on her voice mail.

“Keisha, it’s Bosch.”

“Hey, Bosch, how you doing?”

“Okay, I guess. I guess you heard about me.”

“Not everything, but I heard you went on temporary leave. But nobody would tell me why. You want to talk about it?”

“No, not really. I mean, not now. I have a favor to ask. If it works out, I’ll give you the story. That’s the deal I’ve made in the past with other reporters.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just walk over to the morgue.”

She groaned.

“I mean the newspaper morgue, right there at the Times.”

“Oh, that’s better. What do you need?”

“I’ve got a name. It’s old. I know the guy was a dirtbag in the fifties and at least the early sixties. But I’ve lost track of him after that. Thing is, my hunch is that he’s dead.”

“You want an obit?”

“Well, I don’t know if this is the type of guy the Times would write an obituary on. He was strictly small time, near as I can tell. I was thinking that there might be a story, you know, if his death was sort of untimely.”

“You mean like if he got his shit blown away.”

“You got it.”

“Okay, I’ll take a look.”

She seemed eager, Bosch sensed. He knew that she thought that by doing this favor she would be cementing their relationship in place and it would only pay dividends in the future. He said nothing that would dissuade her of this.

“What’s the name?”

“His name is John Fox. He went by Johnny. Last I have a trace on him is 1961. He was a pimp, general piece of trash.”

“White, black, yellow or brown?”

“General piece of white trash, you could say.”

“You have a birth date? It will help narrow it down if there’s more than one Johnny Fox in the clips.”

He gave it to her.

“Okay, where you going to be?”

Bosch gave her his portable phone number. He knew that would set the hook. The number would go right onto the source list she kept in her computer like gold earrings in a jewelry box. Having the number where he could be reached at almost any time was worth the search in the morgue.

“Okay, listen, I’ve got a meeting with my editor—that’s the only reason I’m in this early. But after, I’ll go take a look. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

“If there is something.”

“Right.”

After Bosch hung up he ate some Frosted Flakes from a box he took out of the refrigerator and turned on the news radio. He had discontinued the newspaper after the earthquake in case Gowdy, the building inspector, happened by early and saw it out front, a clue that someone was inhabiting the uninhabitable. There was nothing much in the top of the news summary that interested him. No homicides in Hollywood, at least. He wasn’t missing out on anything.

There was one story after the traffic report that caught his attention. An octopus on display at a city aquarium in San Pedro had apparently killed itself by pulling a water circulation tube out of its tank fitting with one of its tentacles. The tank emptied and the octopus died. Environmental groups were calling it suicide, a desperate protest by the octopus against its captivity. Only in L.A., Bosch thought as he turned the radio off. A place so desperate even the marine life was killing itself.

He took