“Chastain investigated the complaint. You know that. Before Harris could sue us he had to file a complaint. That went to Chastain. And from what I understood at the time, he made the guy’s case. He confirmed it. Fucking Rooker had a pencil in his desk — the tip was broken off and there was blood on it. Kept it like a souvenir or something. Chastain got it with a search warrant and was going to match the blood to Harris.”

Bosch shook his head, at both the stupidity and the arrogance of Rooker. Of the whole department.

“Yeah,” Garwood said, seeming to know what he was thinking. “So the last thing I heard was that Chastain was going to file departmentals against Sheehan, Rooker, couple of the others, then go to the D.A. for criminal charges. He was going all the way with this one because that pencil and the blood were hard evidence. He had Rooker at least in the bag.”

“Okay, so what happened.”

“What happened was that the next thing is we get the word that everybody’s clear. Chastain filed the case as unfounded.”

Bosch nodded.

“Somebody reached down.”

“You got it.”

“Who?”

“Irving’s my guess. But maybe higher. The case was too volatile. If the charges were sustained and there were suspensions, firings, D.A. charges, whatever, then we start a whole new round of ‘kick the LAPD’ in the press and in the south end with Tuggins and Sparks and everywhere else. Remember, this was a year ago. The new chief had just come on board. It wouldn’t be a good way to start out. So somebody reached down. Irving’s always been the department fixer. It was probably him. But for something like this, he might have enlisted the chief’s okay. That’s how Irving survives. He hooks the chief in, then he can’t be touched because he has the secrets. Like J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI — but without the dress. I think.”

Bosch nodded.

“What do you think happened to that pencil with the blood on it?” he asked.

“Who knows? Irving’s probably using it to write personnel evaluations. Though I’m sure he’s washed the blood off it.”

They were silent for a moment as they watched a group of a dozen young men walking north on Vine toward the boulevard. They were mostly white. In the streetlight Bosch could see the tattoos covering their arms. Head-bangers, probably going up to the stores on the boulevard to replay 1992. A quick memory of Frederick’s of Hollywood being looted flashed through his mind.

The group slowed as they passed Bosch’s car. They considered whether to do something to the car and then decided against it and moved on.

“Lucky we didn’t meet in your car,” Garwood said.

Bosch didn’t say anything.

“This place is going to come apart tonight,” Garwood continued. “I can feel it. Pity the rain stopped.”