unannounced candidate, or at least the man Bosch assumed was Shepherd. Harry noticed that while the crowd seemed to exhibit solidarity in terms of wealth, it cut across all age lines. He guessed that many were there to see Mittel as much as Shepherd.

One of the women in black-and-white came out from under the white canopy and toward him with a tray of champagne glasses. He took one, thanked her, and turned back to the view. He sipped at it and supposed that it was top quality, but he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. He decided he should gulp it and go when a voice from his left interrupted.

“Wonderful view, isn’t it? Better than a movie. I could stand here for hours.”

Bosch turned his head to acknowledge the speaker but didn’t look at him. He didn’t want to get involved.

“Yeah, it’s nice. But I’ll take the mountains I have.”

“Really? Where is that?”

“The other side of the hill. On Woodrow Wilson.”

“Oh, yes. There are some very nice properties there.”

Not mine, Bosch thought. Unless you like neoearthquake classic.

“The San Gabriels are brilliant in the sun,” the conversationalist said. “I looked there but then I bought here.”

Bosch turned. He was looking at Gordon Mittel. The host put out his hand.

“Gordon Mittel.”

Bosch hesitated but then figured Mittel was used to people losing a step or stuttering in his presence.

“Harvey Pounds,” Bosch said, taking his hand.

Mittel was wearing a black tuxedo. He was as overdressed for the crowd as Bosch was underdressed. His gray hair was cropped short and he had a smooth machine tan. He was as trim and tight as a rubber band stretched around a stack of hundreds and looked at least five to ten years younger than he was.

“Glad to meet you, glad you could come,” he said. “Did you meet Robert yet?”

“No, he’s kind of in the middle of the pack there.”

“Yes, that’s true. Well, he’ll be happy to meet you when he gets the chance.”

“I guess he’ll be happy to take my check as well.”

“That, too.” Mittel smiled. “Seriously, though, I hope you can help us out. He’s a good man and we need people like him in office.”

His smile seemed so phony that Harry wondered if Mittel had already pegged him as a crasher. Bosch smiled back and patted the right breast of his jacket.

“I’ve got the checkbook right here.”

Doing that, Bosch remembered what he really had in his pocket and got an idea. The champagne, though only a single glass, had emboldened him. He suddenly realized he wanted to spook Mittel and maybe get a look at his real colors.

“Tell me,” he said, “is Shepherd the one?”

“I don’t quite follow.”

“Is he going all the way to the White House someday? Is he the one that’s going to take you?”

Mittel sloughed off a frown or maybe it was a glimmer of annoyance.

“I guess we shall see. We’ve got to get him into the Senate first. That’s the important thing.”

Bosch nodded and made a show of scanning the crowd.

“Well, it looks like you have the right people here. But, you know, I don’t see Arno Conklin. Are you still tight with him? He was your first, wasn’t he?”

Mittel’s forehead creased with a deep furrow.

“Well…” Mittel seemed to be uncomfortable, but then it quickly passed. “To tell the truth, we haven’t spoken in a long time. He’s retired now, an old man in a wheelchair. Do you know Arno?”

“Never spoken to him in my life.”

“Then tell me, what prompts a question about ancient history?”

Bosch hiked his shoulders.

“I guess I’m just a student of history, that’s all.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Pounds? Or are you a fulltime student?”

“I’m in law.”

“We have something in common then.”

“I doubt it.”

“I’m a Stanford man. How about you?”

Bosch thought a moment.

“Vietnam.”

Mittel frowned again and Bosch saw the interest go out of his eyes like water down a drain.

“Well, I tell you, I ought to mingle a little more. Watch the champagne, and if you decide you don’t want to drive, one of the boys on the driveway can get you home. Ask for Manuel.”

“The one in the red vest?”

“Uh, yes. One of them.”

Bosch held up his glass.

“Don’t worry, this is only my third.”

Mittel nodded and disappeared back into the crowd. Bosch watched him cross beneath the tent, stop to shake a few hands, but eventually make it to the house. He entered through a wall of French doors into what looked like a living room or some sort of viewing area.