“Fucking-A legit. The room was sealed by patrol. Nobody went in until I got there. I then watched over everything — we were dealing with the Kincaid family and I knew what that meant. The car czar and heavy contributor to local political coffers. I was on the straight and narrow with everything. The prints were on her schoolbook — a geography book. SID got four fingers on one side and a thumb on the other — as if he had picked the book up by the binding. Those prints were perfect. The guy must’ve been sweating like a pig when he left ’em because they were grade A perfect.”

He drained his glass and then held it up so the bartender would see he needed a refill.

“I can’t believe you can’t smoke anymore in a fucking bar in this city,” Sheehan said. “Fucking douche bags.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, we ran everything and Harris pops up. Ex-con, did time for assault, burglary, he’s got about as much a legitimate reason for his prints being in her room as I have a chance of winning the lottery — and I don’t fucking play. So bingo, we got our man. We go hook him up. Remember, at that time the girl’s body hadn’t turned up. We were operating on the belief she might still be alive somewhere. We were wrong but we didn’t know it at the time. So we hook him up, bring him downtown and put him in the room. Only this motherfucker won’t tell us the time of day. Three days and we get nothing. We never even took him to a cell at night. He was in that room seventy-two straight hours. We worked in teams and in shifts and we could not crack his egg. Never gave us jack shit. I tell you what, I’d like to kill the fuck, but I gotta respect him for that. He was the best I ever went against.”

Sheehan took a double gulp from his new beer. Bosch was still only halfway through his first. He was content to let Sheehan talk and tell the story at his own pace without interrupting him with questions.

“On the last day some of the guys lost it a little bit. Did things.”

Bosch closed his eyes. He had been wrong about Sheehan.

“Me, too, Harry.”

He said it matter of factly, as if it felt good to finally say it out loud. He drank more of his beer, turned on his stool and looked about the bar as if seeing it for the first time. There was a TV mounted in a corner. It was tuned to ESPN.

“We’re off the record here, right, Harry?”

“Sure.”

Sheehan turned back and leaned toward Bosch in a conspiratorial sort of way.