“First of all, here’s your stuff. I found it out there on the bridge.”

From the pocket of his jacket he pulled my wallet and loose bills. He put it all on the desk and then reached back in for the coins.

“Okay, now what?” I asked as I put my property back in my pocket.

“Now we talk,” Bosch said. “First off, do you want to file a report on this?”

“Why bother? You know about it. It’s your case. Why don’t you know who this guy is?”

“We’re working on it.”

“That’s not good enough, Bosch! He came after me! Why can’t you ID him?”

Bosch shook his head.

“Because we think he’s a hitter brought in from out of town. Maybe out of the country.”

“That’s fucking fantastic! Why did he come back here?”

“Obviously, because of you. Because of what you know.”

“Me? I don’t know anything.”

“You’ve been in here for three days. You must know something that makes you a danger to him.”

“I’m telling you, I’ve got nothing.”

“Then, you have to ask yourself, why did that guy come back? What did he leave behind or forget the first time?”

I just stared at him. I actually wanted to help. I was tired of being under the gun — in more ways than one — and if I could’ve given Bosch just one answer, I would have.

I shook my head.

“I can’t think of a single—”

“Come on, Haller!” Bosch barked at me. “Your life is threatened here! Don’t you get it? What’ve you got?”

“I told you!”

“Who did Vincent bribe?”

“I don’t know and I couldn’t tell you if I did.”

“What did the FBI want with him?”

“I don’t know that, either!”

He started pointing at me.

“You fucking hypocrite. You’re hiding behind the protections of the law, while the killer is out there waiting. Your ethics and rules won’t stop a bullet, Haller. Tell me what you’ve got!”

“I told you! I don’t have anything and don’t point your fucking finger at me. This isn’t my job. It’s your job. And maybe if you would get it done, people around here would feel—”

“Excuse me?”

The voice came from behind Bosch. In one fluid move he turned and pivoted out of his chair, drawing his gun and aiming it at the door.

A man holding a trash bag stood there, his eyes going wide in fright.

Bosch immediately lowered his weapon, and the office cleaner looked like he might faint.

“Sorry,” Bosch said.

“I come back later,” the man said in a thick accent from Eastern Europe.

He turned and disappeared quickly through the door.

“Goddamn it!” Bosch cursed, clearly unhappy about pointing his gun at an innocent man.

“I doubt we’ll ever get our trash cans emptied again,” I said.