surprise and then a flashing hint of sadness cross Scales's face. The news had hurt.
"He was found dead three days ago in L.A. A homicide. We think it is related to a crime he took part in last year, that you may have heard about from the FBI's previous contact."
"The tunnel thing? At that bank in L.A.?" he asked. "I know what I was told by the FBI. That's it."
"That's fine," Wish said. "What we need from you is more complete information about who was here when Meadows was. We went over this ground before, but we are rechecking, looking for anything that might help. Will you cooperate with us?"
"I always cooperate with you people. I don't like it because half the time I think you got your wires crossed. Most of my boys, when they leave here, they don't get mixed up again. We have a good record here. If Meadows did what you're saying he did, he is the rarity."
"We understand that," she said. "And this will be strictly confidential."
"O'right then, come into my office and you can ask your questions."
As they went through the front door Bosch saw two long tables in what was probably once the ranch house's living room. About twenty men sat before plates of what looked like chicken-fried steaks and mounds of vegetables. Not one looked at Eleanor Wish. That was because they were silently saying grace, their heads down, eyes closed and hands folded. Bosch could see tattoos on almost every arm. When they stopped their prayer a chorus of forks struck home on the plates. A few of the men took the time then to look at Eleanor approvingly. The man in the apron who had come to the screen door earlier now stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
"Colonel, are you eating with the men today, sir?" he called.
Scales nodded and said, "I'll be through in a few minutes."
They went down a hallway and through the first door into an office that was supposed to be a bedroom. It was crowded by a desk with a top the size of a door. Scales pointed to two chairs in front of it and Bosch and Wish sat down, while he took the upholstered job behind the desk.
"Now, I know exactly what I am required by law to give you and what I don't have to even speak to you about. But I am inclined to do more, if it will help and we have an understanding. Meadows—I sort of knew he would end up as you say he did. I prayed to the Good Lord to guide him, but I knew. I will help you. No one should take a life in a civilized world. No one at all."
"Colonel," Bosch began, "we appreciate your help. I want you to know, first off, that we know what kind of job you are doing bere. We know you have the respect and encouragement of both state and federal authorities. But our investigation of Meadows's death leads us to conclude he was involved in a conspiracy with other men who had the same skills as he and—"
"You are saying they are vets," Scales cut in. He was filling a pipe with tobacco from a canister on the desk.
"Possibly. We have not identified them yet, so we don't know it for a fact. But if that is the case, there would seem a possibility that the players in the conspiracy may have met here. I stress the word "may." Therefore, there are two things we want from you. A look at any records you still have on Meadows and a list of every man that was here during the ten months he was."
Scales was tamping his pipe and seemingly paying no attention to what had just been said. Then he said, "No problem on his records—he's dead. On the other, I suppose I should call my lawyer just to make sure I can do that. We run a good program here. And vegetables and money from the state and the feds don't cover it. I get out the soapbox and make the rounds. We rely on the tithings of the community, civic organizations, things like that. Bad publicity will dry that money up faster than a Santa Ana wind. I help you, I risk that. The other risk is the loss in the faith of the men who come here for a new start. See, most of those men that were here back when Meadows