“My house got wrecked in the earthquake,” Bosch said. “It’s rebuilt now. I even have a guest room . . . and, Frankie, my wife left me, too.”

It felt strange to say it out loud. As if it was some form of confirmation of the death of his marriage.

“Oh, shit, Harry, you guys only got married a year or so ago. When did this happen?”

Bosch looked over at him and then back at the road.

“Recently.”

There were no reporters waiting outside Sheehan’s home when they got there twenty minutes later. Bosch said he was going to wait in the car and make some calls while Sheehan got his things. When he was alone he called his house to check for messages, so he wouldn’t have to play them in front of Sheehan when they got there. But there were none. He put the phone away and just sat. He wondered if his inviting Sheehan to stay at his house had been a subconscious effort to avoid facing the emptiness of the place. After a while he decided it wasn’t. He had lived alone most of his life. He was used to places that were empty. He knew the real shelter of a home was inside yourself.

Light washing across the mirrors caught Bosch’s eyes. He checked the side view and saw the lights of a car that was being parked against the curb a block or so back. He doubted it was a reporter. A reporter would have pulled right into Sheehan’s driveway, made no effort at concealment. He started thinking about what he wanted to ask Sheehan.

A few minutes later his former partner came out of the house carrying a grocery bag. He opened the back door and tossed it in, then got in up front. He was smiling.

“Margie took all the suitcases,” he said. “I didn’t realize that till tonight.”

They took Beverly Glen up the hill to Mulholland and then took it east to Woodrow Wilson. Bosch usually loved driving Mulholland at night. The curving road, the city lights coming in and out of view. But along the way they drove by The Summit and Bosch studied the gate and thought about the Kincaids somewhere behind it in the safety of their home with jetliner views.

“Frankie, I have to ask you something,” he said.

“Shoot.”

“Back on the Kincaid thing, during the investigation, did you talk to Kincaid much? Sam Kincaid, I mean.”

“Yeah, sure. Guy like that you handled with kid gloves. Him and the old man. You be careful, else it might come back on you.”

“Yeah. So you were pretty much keeping him informed on what was happening?”

“Yeah, pretty much. What about it? You’re sounding like those bureau guys who were all over me all day, Harry.”

“Sorry, just asking. Did he call you a lot or did you call him?”