Bosch and Rider walked over.

“Got something?” Rider asked.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Chastain said.

He pointed to the dirty, worn tiles at his feet.

“Cigarette butts,” Baker said. “Five of them — same brand. Means somebody was waiting here a while.”

“Could have been a homeless,” Rider said.

“Maybe,” Baker replied. “Could’ve been our shooter.”

Bosch wasn’t that impressed.

“Any of you smokers?” he asked.

“Why?” Baker asked.

“Because then you’d see what this probably is. What is it you see when you go in the front doors at Parker Center?”

Chastain and Baker looked puzzled.

“Cops?” Baker tried.

“Yeah, but cops doing what?”

“Smoking,” Rider said.

“Right. No smoking in public buildings anymore, so the smokers gather round the front doors. This market is a public facility.”

He pointed at the cigarette butts crushed on the tiles.

“It doesn’t necessarily mean somebody was waiting there a long time. I think it means somebody in the market came out five times during the day for smokes.”

Baker nodded but Chastain refused to acknowledge the deduction.

“Still could be our guy,” he said. “Where else did he wait, the bushes over there?”

“He could have. Or like Kiz said, maybe he didn’t wait. Maybe he walked right up to the train with Elias. Maybe Elias thought he was with a friend.”

Bosch reached into his jacket pocket and took out a plastic evidence bag. He handed it to Chastain.

“Or maybe I’m all wrong and you’re all right. Bag ’em and tag ’em, Chastain. Make sure they get to the lab.”

A few minutes later Bosch was finished with his survey of the lower crime scene. He got on the train, picked up his briefcase where he had left it and moved up the stairs to one of the benches near the upper door. He sat down heavily, almost dropping onto the hard bench. He was beginning to feel fatigue take over and wished he had gotten some sleep before Irving’s call had come. The excitement and adrenaline that accompany a new case caused a false high that always wore off quickly. He wished he could have a smoke and then maybe a quick nap. But only one of the two was possible at the moment, and he would have to find an all-night market to get the smokes. Again he decided against it. For some reason he felt that his nicotine fast had become part of his vigil for Eleanor. He thought that if he smoked all would be lost, that he would never hear from her again.

“What are you thinking, Harry?”

He looked up. Rider was in the doorway of the train, coming aboard.

“Nothing. Everything. We’re really just getting started on this. There’s a lot to do.”

“No rest for the weary.”

“Say that again.”