The Hollywood station seemed deserted when Bosch and Entrenkin arrived. There were no patrol cars in the rear lot and when they came through the back door the rear hallway, usually abuzz with activity, was empty. Bosch stuck his head through the open door of the watch office and saw a lone sergeant at a desk. A television mounted on the wall was on. There were no flames on the screen. It showed a news anchor in a studio. The graphic hanging over his shoulder was a photo of Howard Elias. The volume was too low for Bosch to hear what was being said.

“How we doing?” Bosch said to the sergeant.

“Hanging in. For now.”

Bosch knocked twice on the door and headed down the hallway to the detective bureau, Entrenkin following. Rider and Edgar were already there. They had rolled the television out of the lieutenant’s office and were watching the same news report. They saw Bosch and Entrenkin and the surprise registered on their faces.

Bosch introduced Entrenkin to Edgar, who had not been in Elias’s office that morning. He then asked what the latest news was.

“The city’s holding tight, it looks like,” Edgar said. “Couple fires and that’s it. Meantime, they’re pretty much making Elias into Saint Howard. Not much said about what an opportunistic asshole he was.”

Bosch glanced at Entrenkin. She showed nothing.

“Well, let’s turn it off,” he said. “We have to talk.”

Bosch brought his partners up to date and showed them the three anonymous notes that had been mailed to Elias. He explained Entrenkin’s presence and said he wanted to try to get Harris’s cooperation and at the same time eliminate him as a potential suspect in the killings.

“Do we even know where Harris is?” Edgar asked. “He hasn’t shown up on TV that I’ve seen. Maybe he doesn’t even know about Elias.”

“Well, we’ll find out. His current address and phoner were in Elias’s files. Looks like Elias was putting him up, probably trying to keep him out of trouble before the trial. He’s close by — if he’s home.”

Bosch got out his notebook and got the phone number. He went to his desk and called it. A man answered.

“Can I speak to Harry?” Bosch said good-naturedly.

“No Harry here, man.”

The phone was hung up.

“Well, somebody’s home,” Bosch said to the others. “Let’s go.”

They drove in one car. Harris currently lived in an apartment on Beverly Boulevard near the CBS complex. Elias had put him into a large complex that wasn’t luxurious but was more than nice. And downtown was a straight shot down Beverly.