shrugged one more time. He pointed to the door that led to the sidewalk on Fifth Street. He was telling Bosch that Verloren was out there somewhere.
“It happens,” the man said.
Bosch looked back at him.
“When did he go?”
“Yesterday. It was you cops who did it to him, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard some cop came in here, told him some shit. I don’t know what it was about, but that was right before-know what I’m saying? He got off work and went out and took the taste again. And that was that. All I know is, we need a new chef now ’cause the guy they got fillin’ in can’t make eggs for shit.”
Bosch said nothing else to the man. He stepped away from the window and went to the door. Outside the shelter the street was teeming with people. The night people. The damaged and displaced. People hiding from others and hiding from themselves. People running from the past, from the things they did and the things they didn’t do.
Bosch knew the story was going to hit the news in the morning. He had wanted to tell it to Robert Verloren himself.
Bosch decided he would look for Robert Verloren out there. He didn’t know what the news he would bring would do for him. He didn’t know if it would bring Verloren out or push him further into the hole. Maybe nothing could help him now. But he needed to tell him anyway. The world was full of people who could not get over things. There was no closure and there was no peace. The truth did not set you free. But you could get through things. That’s what Bosch would tell him. You could head toward the light and climb and dig and fight your way out of the hole.
Bosch pushed open the door and headed out into the night.
43
THE POLICE ACADEMY parade field was nestled like a green blanket against one of the wooded hills of Elysian Park. It was a beautiful and shaded place and spoke well of the tradition the police chief had wanted Bosch to be reminded of.
At 8 a.m. on the morning following his fruitless night search for Robert Verloren, Bosch presented himself at the graduation check-in table and was escorted to an assigned seat on the platform beneath the VIP tent. There were four rows of chairs in formation behind the lectern from which the speeches would be made. Bosch’s seat looked out across the parade grounds where the new cadets would march, then form up and be inspected. As an invited guest of the chief he would be one of the inspectors.
Bosch was in full uniform. It was tradition to fly the colors at the graduation of new officers-to welcome them to the uniform in the uniform. And he was early. He sat by himself and listened to the police band play old standards. As other VIPs were taken to their seats, no one bothered him. They were mostly politicians and dignitaries and a few purple heart winners from Iraq who wore the uniform of the U.S. Marine Corps.
Bosch’s skin felt raw under his starched collar and tightly knotted tie. He had spent almost an hour in the shower scrubbing away the ink he’d had put to his skin, hoping that it would take all the ugliness of the case down the drain with it.
He didn’t notice the approach of Deputy Chief Irvin Irving until the cadet leading him to the tent said, “Excuse me, sir.”
Bosch looked up and saw that Irving was being seated right next to him. He straightened up and grabbed his program off the seat intended for Irving.
“Enjoy yourself, sir,” the cadet said before snapping into a turn and heading back for another VIP.
Irving didn’t say anything at first. He seemed to be spending a lot of time making himself comfortable and looking around to see who might be watching them. They were in the first row, two of the best seats in the place. Finally he spoke without turning or looking at Bosch.
“What is going on here, Bosch?”
“You tell me, Chief.”
Bosch took a turn looking around to see if anyone was watching them. It obviously wasn’t happenstance that they were sitting next to each other. Bosch did not believe in coincidences. Not like that.
“The chief said he wanted me to be here,” he said. “He invited me on Monday when he gave me back my badge.”