The light was already on in the kitchen. Bosch put his briefcase on the counter and opened the refrigerator. There was no beer.

“Shit,” he said.

He knew there had been at least five bottles of Anchor Steam in the refrigerator. He turned and saw the five bottle caps on the counter. He started further into the house.

“Hey, Frankie!” he called. “Don’t tell me you drank everything!”

There was no reply. Bosch moved through the dining room and then the living room. The place appeared as he had left it earlier that evening, as if Sheehan had not made himself at home. He checked the rear deck through the glass doors. The light was off outside and he saw no sign of his former partner. He walked down the hallway and leaned close to the closed door of the guest room. He heard nothing. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet eleven.

“Frankie?” he whispered.

No reply, only the sound of the rain on the roof. He knocked lightly on the door.

“Frankie?” he said louder.

Still nothing. Bosch reached to the knob and slowly opened the door. The lights were off in the room but light from the hallway cut across the bed and Bosch could see it was not occupied. He flicked the wall switch and a bed table lamp came on. The bag Sheehan had carried his belongings in was empty on the floor. His clothes had been dumped onto the bed in a pile.

Bosch’s curiosity turned into a low-grade concern. He quickly moved back into the hallway and made a quick search of his own bedroom and the bathrooms. There was no sign of Sheehan.

Back in the living room Bosch paced about for a few moments wondering what Sheehan might have done. He had no car. It was unlikely he would have tried to walk down the hill into the city and where would he be going anyway? Bosch picked up the phone and hit redial to see if by chance Sheehan had called a cab. It sounded like more than seven tones to Bosch but the redial was so fast he wasn’t sure. After one ring the phone was answered by the sleepy voice of a woman.

“Yes?”

“Uh, who is this, please?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m sorry. My name is Detective Harry Bosch of the LAPD. I am trying to trace a call that was made from — ”

“Harry, it’s Margie Sheehan.”

“Oh . . . Margie . . .”

He realized he should have guessed Sheehan would have called her.

“What’s wrong, Harry?”

“Nothing, Margie, nothing. I’m trying to find Frankie and I thought maybe he called a cab or something. I’m sorry to — ”

“What do you mean, find him?”

He could read the rising concern in her voice.