eighteen. So her license will have her real name on it. I can go through them and find her—they got their pictures on them. Might take me a couple hours but I can find her.”

“Okay, good, will you do that in the morning and, if Edgar doesn't come by, get the prints to him at Hollywood homicide?”

“Jerry Edgar. I'll do it.”

Neither spoke for a few moments as they thought about what they were doing.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“The paper said that there was a new note, that true?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it legit? Did we fuck up?”

“I don't know yet, Ray, but I appreciate you saying ‘we.’ A lot of people just want to point at me.”

“Yeah, listen, I ought to tell you, I got subpoenaed today by that Money bitch.”

It didn't surprise Bosch, since Mora had been on the Dollmaker task force.

“Don't worry about it. She's probably papered everybody who was on the task force.”

“Okay.”

“But try to keep this new stuff under your hat if you can.”

“As long as I can.”

“She's got to know what to ask before she can ask it. I'm just looking for some time to work with this, see what it means.”

“No problem, man. You and I both know the right guy went down. No doubt about that, Harry.”

But saying it out loud like that put a doubt to it, Bosch knew. Mora was wondering the same things Bosch was.

“You need me to drop this video box off tomorrow so you know what she looks like before flipping through the files?”

“No, like I said, we've got all sorts of catalogs. I'll just look up Tails from the Crypt and get it from there. If that don't work I'll go through the agency books.”

They hung up and Bosch lit a cigarette, though Sylvia didn't like him doing it in the house. It wasn't that she had a problem with his smoking but she thought potential buyers might be turned off if they thought it had been a smoker's house. He sat there alone for several minutes, peeling the label off the empty beer bottle and thinking about how quickly things could change. Believe something for four years and then find out you might be wrong.

He brought a bottle of Buehler zinfandel and two glasses into the bedroom. Sylvia was in bed with the covers pulled up to her naked shoulders. She had a lamp on and was reading a book called Never Let Them See You Cry. Bosch walked to her side of the bed and sat down next to her. He poured out two glasses, they tapped them together and sipped.

“To victory in court,” she said.

“Sounds good to me.”

They kissed.

“Were you smoking out there again?”

“Sorry.”

“Was it bad news? The calls?”

“No. Just bullshit.”

“You want to talk?”

“Not now.”

He went into the bathroom with his glass and took a quick shower. The wine, which had been beautiful, tasted terrible after he brushed his teeth. When he came out, the reading light was out and the book put away. There were candles burning on both night tables and the bureau. They were in silver votive candle holders with crescent moons and stars cut out on the sides. The flickering flames threw blurry, moving patterns on the walls and curtains and in the mirror, like a silent cacophony.

She lay propped on three pillows, the covers off. He stood naked at the foot of the bed for a few moments and they smiled at each other. She was beautiful to him, her body tan and almost girlish. She was thin, with small breasts and a small, flat stomach. Her chest was freckled from too many summer days at the beach while growing up.

He was eight years older and knew he looked it, but he was not ashamed of his physical appearance. At forty-three, he still had a flat stomach and his body was still ropey with muscles—muscles not created on machines but by lifting the day-to-day weight of his life, his mission. His body hair was curiously going to gray at a much faster pace than the hair on his head. Sylvia often would kid him about this, accusing him of having dyed his hair, of having a vanity they both knew he did not have.

When he climbed onto the bed next to her she ran her fingers over his Vietnam tattoo and the scars a bullet had left on his right shoulder a few years earlier. She traced the surgery zipper the way she did every time they were together here.

“I love you, Harry,” she said.

He