as a police officer would sound phony and get him more attention than he wanted.

“Yes,” he lied.

“Really, what's it called? Maybe I'll take it.”

“Uh, well, I haven't decided yet. I'm still formulating a—”

“Well, what's your name? I'll look for it in the catalog.”

“Uh … Locke. Dr. John Locke, psychology.”

“Oh, you wrote the book. Yeah, I've heard of you. I'll look the class up. Thanks and have a good day.”

She gave him his change. He thanked her and left with the book in a bag.

25

Bosch was back in the federal courthouse shortly after four. While they waited for Judge Keyes to come out and dismiss the jury for the weekend, Belk whispered that he had called Chandler's office during the afternoon and offered the plaintiff fifty grand to walk away from the case.

“She told you to shove it.”

“She wasn't that polite, actually.”

Bosch smiled and looked over at Chandler. She was whispering something to Church's wife but must have felt Bosch's stare. She stopped speaking and looked over at him. For nearly half a minute they engaged in an adolescent stare-down contest, with neither backing down until the door to the judge's chambers opened and Judge Keyes bounded out and up to his place on the bench.

He had the clerk buzz in the jury. He asked if there was anything anybody needed to talk about and, when there wasn't, he instructed the jurors to avoid reading newspaper accounts of the case or watching the local TV news. He then ordered the jurors and all other parties to the case to be back by 9:30 A.M., Monday, when deliberations would begin again.

Bosch stepped on the escalator right behind Chandler to go down to the lobby exit. She was standing about two steps up from Deborah Church.

“Counselor?” he said in a low voice so the widow would not hear. Chandler turned around on the step, grabbing the handrail for balance.

“The jury is out, there is nothing that can change the case now,” he said. “Norman Church himself could be waiting for us in the lobby and we wouldn't be able to tell the jury. So, why don't you give me the note? This case might be over, but there is still an investigation.”

Chandler said nothing the rest of the way down. But in the lobby she told Deborah Church to go on out to the sidewalk and she'd be along soon. Then she turned to Bosch.

“Again, I deny there is a note, okay?”

Bosch smiled.

“We're already past that, remember? You slipped up yesterday. You said—”

“I don't care what I said or you said. Look, if the guy sent me a note, it would've just been a copy of what you already got. He wouldn't waste his time writing a new one.”

“I appreciate you at least telling me that, but even a copy could be helpful. There could be fingerprints. The copy paper might be traceable.”

“Detective Bosch, how many times did you pull prints from the other letters he sent?”

Bosch didn't answer.

“That's what I figured,” she said. “Have a good weekend.”

She turned and pushed her way through the exit door.

Bosch waited a few seconds, put a cigarette in his mouth and went out himself.

Sheehan and Opelt were in the conference room filling in Rollenberger on their surveillance shift. Edgar was also sitting at the round table listening. Bosch saw he had a photo of Mora on the table in front of him. It was a face shot, like the one the department takes of every cop every year when they reissue ID cards.

“If it happens, it's not going to happen during the day anyway,” Sheehan was saying. “So maybe tonight they'll have good luck.”

“All right,” Rollenberger said. “Just type something up for the chron log and you guys can call it a day. I'll need it because I have a briefing with Chief Irving at five. But remember, you're both on call tonight. It's going to be all hands. If Mora starts acting hinky I want you to get back out there with Mayfield and Yde.”

“Right,” Opelt said.

While Opelt sat down at the lone typewriter Rollenberger had requisitioned, Sheehan poured them cups of coffee from the Mr. Coffee that had appeared on the counter behind the round table sometime during the afternoon. Hans Off wasn't much of a cop but he could sure set up an Ops Center, Bosch thought. He poured himself a cup and joined Sheehan and Edgar at the table.

“I missed most of that,” he said to Sheehan. “Sounds like nothing happened.”

“Right. After