“You want to know why I was questioned? I was questioned because the department needs to sacrifice somebody. To keep the peace. Doesn’t matter who it is, as long as they fit the bill. That’s where I came in. I fit the — ”

Bosch grabbed Sheehan and yanked him away from the microphones.

“Come on, Frankie, forget about them.”

By moving between two parked cars they were able to cut off the clot of reporters and cameramen. Bosch pushed Sheehan quickly to his slickback and opened the door. By the time the reporters followed in single file to the car, Sheehan was inside and safe from the microphones. Bosch went around to his side and got in.

They drove in silence until they were on the 101 Freeway going north. Bosch then glanced over at Sheehan. His eyes were staring ahead.

“You shouldn’t have said that, Frankie. You’re fanning the fire.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the fire. Not anymore.”

Silence returned. They were on the freeway cutting through Hollywood and traffic was light. Bosch could see smoke rising from a fire somewhere to the south and west. He thought about putting KFWB on the radio but decided he didn’t want to know what that smoke meant.

“They give you a chance in there to call Margaret?” he asked after a while.

“Nope. They didn’t give me a chance to do anything other than confess. I’m sure glad you rode into town and saved the day, Harry. I never did get told what you told ’em but whatever it was it sure saved my ass.”

Bosch knew what Sheehan was asking but he wasn’t ready to tell him.

“The media’s probably been out to your house,” he said instead. “Margaret probably got blindsided with this.”

“I got news for you, Harry. Margaret left me eight months ago. Took the girls and moved to Bakersfield. To be near her folks. There’s nobody at my house.”

“Sorry, Frankie.”

“I should’ve told you last night when you asked about them.”

Bosch drove for a little bit, thinking about things.

“Why don’t you get some stuff from your place and come stay at my house? The reporters won’t find you. Until this blows over.”

“I don’t know, Harry. Your house is the size of a box of Girl Scout cookies. I’m already claustrophobic from being in that room all day. Besides, I never met your wife, you know? She’s not going to want some stranger sleeping on your couch.”

Bosch looked at the Capitol Records building as the freeway cut past it. It was supposed to resemble a stack of records with a phonograph stylus on top. But like most of Hollywood time had passed it by. They didn’t make records anymore. Music came on compact discs. They sold record albums in secondhand stores now. Sometimes all of Hollywood seemed like a secondhand store to Bosch.