reporter would look as if he or she had been at the funeral exclusively. Bosch recognized a few as people who had shoved microphones in his face before. Then he noticed that one of the men he had thought was one of the professional mourners was actually Bremmer. The Times reporter walked away from the grave and was heading to one of the cars parked along the access road. Bosch waited until Bremmer was almost next to his car before he rolled down the window and called to him.
"Harry, I thought you were in the hospital or something."
"I thought I'd come by. But I didn't know it was going to be a circus. Don't you people have anything better to do?"
"Hey, I'm not with them. That's a pig fuck."
"What?"
"TV reporters. That's what they call one of these gang-bangs. So, what are you doing here? I didn't think you'd be out so soon."
"I escaped. Why don't you get in and take a ride." Then indicating the TV reporters with his hand, Bosch said, "They might see me here and charge over and trample us."
Bremmer walked around and got in the car. Bosch took the driveway to the west section of the cemetery. He parked under the shade of a sprawling oak tree, from which they could see the Vietnam memorial. There were several people milling about, mostly men, mostly alone. They all looked at the black stone quietly. A couple of the men wore old fatigue jackets, the sleeves cut off.
"You seen the papers or TV yet on this thing?" Bremmer asked.
"Not yet. But I heard what was put out."
"And?"
"Bullshit. Most of it, at least."
"Can you tell me?"
"Not that it gets back to me."
Bremmer nodded. They had known each other a long time. Bosch did not have to ask for promises and Bremmer did not have to go over the differences between off-the-record statements, background statements and statements not for attribution. They had a trust built on prior credibility, going both ways.
"Three things you should check," Bosch said. "Nobody's asked about Lewis and Clarke. They weren't part of my surveillance. They were working for Irving over at IAD. So once you get that established, put the heat on them to explain what they were doing."
"What were they doing?"
"That you'll have to get somewhere else. I know you have other sources in the department."
Bremmer was writing in a long, thin spiral notebook, the kind that always gave reporters away. He was nodding as he wrote.
"Second, find out about Rourke's funeral. It will probably be out of state somewhere. Someplace far enough away that the media back here won't bother to send anybody. But send somebody anyway. Somebody with a camera. He'll probably be the only one there. Just like today's planting. That should tell you something."
Bremmer looked up from his notebook. "You mean no hero's funeral? You're saying Rourke was part of this thing, or he just fucked it up? Christ, the bureau—and we, the media—are making the guy out to be John Wayne reincarnated."
"Yeah, well, you gave him life after death. You can take it away, I guess."
Bosch just looked at him a moment, contemplating how much he should tell, what was safe for him to tell. For just a moment he felt so outraged he wanted to tell Bremmer everything he knew, and the hell with what would happen and what Irving had said. But he didn't. Control came back.
"What's the third thing?" Bremmer asked.
"Get the military records of Meadows, Rourke, Franklin and Delgado. That will tie it up for you. They were in Vietnam, same time, same unit. That's where this whole thing starts. When you get that far, call me and I'll try to fill in what you don't have."
Then all at once Bosch grew tired of the charade being orchestrated by his department and the FBI. The thought of the boy, Sharkey, kept coming to mind. Flat on his back, his head cocked at that odd, sickening angle. The blood. They were going to mop that one up like it didn't matter.
"There's a fourth thing," he said. "There was a kid."
When the story about Sharkey was finished, Bosch started the car and drove Bremmer back down the driveway to his own car. The TV reporters had cleared out of the cemetery and a man in a small front loader was pushing dirt into Meadows's grave. Another man leaned on a shovel nearby and watched.
"I'll probably need a job after your story comes out," Bosch said while watching