Bosch picked up the questioning as though Harris had never said he wouldn’t speak to him. “Did Howard tell you that?”

“Sure did, Mr. Chet.”

“Did he say he could prove it was a frame?”

“Yeah, ’cause he knew who really done the murder a that little white girl and then put her in the lot near my place. An’ it wudn’t me. He was goin’ to court Monday to start to ’zonerate me completely and get my money, my man Howard.”

Bosch waited a beat. The next question and answer would be crucial.

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Who really did the murder? Did he tell you?”

“Nope. He said I didn’t need to know. Said it was dangerous to know that shit. But I bet it’s in there in his files. He ain’t gonna get away again.”

Bosch glanced at Entrenkin.

“Michael, I spent all day with the files. Yes, there are indications that Howard knew who killed Stacey Kincaid but no name was recorded anywhere. Are you sure he never told you a name or gave you any indication of who this person was?”

Harris was momentarily nonplussed. He evidently realized that if Elias went down with the murderer’s name kept to himself, his case might have gone down a few notches as well. He would always carry the stigma of being a murderer who got off because a slick defense lawyer knew how to play a jury.

“Got-damn,” he said.

Bosch came over and sat on the corner of the coffee table, so that he could be close to Harris.

“Think hard,” he said. “You spent a lot of time with him. Who would it be?”

“I don’t know,” Harris said defensively. “Whyn’t you ask Pelfry about it, man?”

“Who is Pelfry?”

“Pelfry’s his leg man. His investigator.”

“You know his whole name?”

“I think it’s somethin’ like Jenks or somethin’.”

“Jenks?”

“Yeah, Jenks. Tha’s what Howard call him.”

Bosch felt a finger poke his shoulder and he turned to see Entrenkin give him a look. She knew who Pelfry was. He could let it go. Bosch stood up and looked down at Harris.

“You came back here last night after you left Elias?”

“Yeah, sure. Why?”

“Anybody with you? You call anybody?”

“What the fuck is this? You’re throwin’ down on me, man.”

“It’s routine. Relax. We ask everybody where they’ve been. Where were you?”

“I was here, man. I was beat. I came home and got in my bed. Ain’t nobody with me.”

“Okay. Mind if I have a look at your pistola for a second?”

“Jesus Christ, I shoulda known you people weren’t on the level. Got-damn.”