It hit Bosch then, like a punch in the chest. The kind where you have to keep perfectly still and silent and wait it out until you slowly get your breath back. He had never known Frank Sheehan to carry a throw-down on the job. He was too good for that. And if you were too good to carry one on the job, why have one hidden at home? That question and its obvious answer had been there right in front of him all along. But he had missed it.

Bosch remembered sitting in his car outside Sheehan’s house. He remembered the set of headlights he saw in the mirror and the car pulling to the curb down the block. Chastain. He had followed them. To Chastain, Sheehan alive was the only loose end that could cause things to unravel.

He thought of his neighbor’s reports of three to four shots being fired at his house. In his mind a drunken cop’s suicide was now a calculated murder.

“Motherfucker,” Bosch whispered.

Garwood nodded. He had successfully led Bosch down the road to where he apparently already was.

“Now, do you see how it could have been done?” he asked.

Bosch tried to slow his thoughts and let it come to him. Finally, he nodded.

“Yes, I see now.”

“Good. I’ll make a call. I’ll have whoever is on duty in the basement let you have a look at the sign-out log. No questions asked. That way you’ll be sure.”

Bosch nodded. He reached over and opened the door. He got out without another word and started back toward his car. He was running before he got there. He didn’t know why. There was no hurry. It was no longer raining. He just knew he had to keep moving to keep from screaming.

Chapter 37

Chapter 37

OUTSIDE of Parker Center there was a candlelight vigil and a funeral procession. Two cardboard caskets — one marked JUSTICE, the other marked HOPE —were being carried aloft by the crowd as they marched back and forth across the front plaza. Others carried signs that said JUSTICE FOR PEOPLE OF ALL COLORS and JUSTICE FOR SOME IS JUSTICE FOR NONE. Above news helicopters circled and on the ground there were at least six news crews that Bosch could see. It was getting close to eleven and all of them were getting ready to put out live reports from the protest front.

At the front door a phalanx of cops in uniforms and riot helmets stood ready to defend the police headquarters if the crowd turned from peaceful demonstration to violence. In 1992 a peaceful demonstration had turned violent and the mob roamed downtown destroying everything in its path. Bosch hurried toward the lobby doors, skirting behind the procession of protesters and through a crack in the human defense line, after holding his badge up high over his head.