“Right. He’d been staying there all week.”

“He had depos,” the wife said. “With the police. They were coming in after work so he was staying late at the office. Then he would just go over to the apartment.”

Bosch was silent, hoping either one of them would add something more about the arrangement but nothing else was said.

“Did he call you and tell you he was staying over?” he asked.

“Yes, he always called.”

“When was this? This last time, is what I mean.”

“Earlier today. He said he’d be working late and needed to get back into it on Saturday and Sunday. You know, preparing for the trial on Monday. He said he would try to be home on Sunday for supper.”

“So you weren’t expecting him to be home here tonight.”

“That’s right,” Millie Elias said, a note of defiance in her voice as if she had taken the tone of Bosch’s question to mean something else.

Bosch nodded as if to reassure her that he was not insinuating anything. He asked the specific address of the apartment and was told it was in a complex called The Place, just across Grand Street from the Museum of Contemporary Art. Bosch took out his notebook and wrote it down, then kept the notebook out.

“Now,” he said, “Mrs. Elias, can you remember more specifically when it was you last spoke to your husband?”

“It was right before six. That is when he calls and tells me, otherwise I have to figure out what’s for supper and how many I’m cooking for.”

“How about you, Martin? When did you last speak to your father?”

Martin opened his eyes.

“I don’t know, man. Couple days ago, at least. But what’s this got to do with anything? You know who did it. Somebody with a badge did this thing.”

Tears finally began to slide down Martin’s face. Bosch wished he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

“If it was a cop, Martin, you have my word, we will find him. He won’t get away with it.”

“Sure,” Martin replied, without looking at Bosch. “The man gives us his word. But who the hell is the man?”

The statement made Bosch pause a moment before continuing.

“A few more questions,” he finally said. “Did Mr. Elias have an office here at home?”

“No,” the son said. “He didn’t do his work here.”

“Okay. Next question. In recent days or weeks, had he mentioned any specific threat or person who he believed wanted to harm him?”

Martin shook his head and said, “He just always said that it was the cops who would get him someday. It was the cops . . .”

Bosch nodded, not in agreement but in his understanding of Martin’s belief.