The broadcast switched to a report on reaction from community leaders to the day’s events and the announcements by the chief of police. When Bosch saw the Reverend Preston Tuggins appear on the screen he picked up the remote and switched channels. He caught reports on peaceful candlelight vigils on two other channels and Councilman Royal Sparks on a third before finally finding a broadcast that showed a helicopter shot from above the intersection of Florence and Normandie. The same spot where the 1992 riots flared was packed with a large crowd of protesters. The demonstration — if it could be called that — was peaceful but Bosch knew it was only a matter of time. The rain and the dimming light of the day were not going to hold back the anger. He thought about what Carla Entrenkin had said to him on Saturday night, about anger and violence filling the void left when hope is taken away. He thought about the void that was inside himself now and wondered what he would fill it with.

He turned the sound down and went back to his report. When he was done, he rolled it out of the typewriter and put it in a file folder. He would drop it off the next morning when he got the chance. With the end of the investigation, he and his partners had been assigned to twelve-and-twelve status like everybody else in the department. They were to report in uniform at six o’clock the next morning at the South Bureau command center. They’d be spending the next few days, at a minimum, on the streets, riding the war zone in two-car, eight-cop patrols.

Bosch decided to go to the closet to check out the condition of his uniform. He hadn’t worn it in five years — since the earthquake and the last use of the department’s emergency response plan. While he was taking it out of its plastic wrap the phone rang and Bosch hurried to answer it, hoping that it might be Eleanor checking in from someplace to say she was safe and okay. He grabbed the phone off the night table and sat down on the bed. But it wasn’t Eleanor. It was Carla Entrenkin.

“You have my files,” she said.

“What?”

“The files. The Black Warrior case. I’m taking the case. I need the files back.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I just saw that on the TV.”

There was a silence then that made Bosch uncomfortable. There was something about the woman that Bosch liked, though he seemed to care so little for her cause.

“I guess that was a good move,” he finally said. “You taking his cases. You worked that out with the widow, huh?”

“I did. And no, I didn’t tell her about Howard and me. I didn’t see the need to spoil the memories she will have. She’s had it rough enough.”

“That was noble of you.”

“Detective . . .”

“What?”