Fryman Canyon was only a few blocks from the converted garage guesthouse where a friend allowed Lanie to live rent free. I could get her home, walk back to the park and retrieve her car afterward. It would take me less than an hour and it would keep Lanie out of jail and her car out of the tow lot.

I left the house and drove Laurel Canyon up the hill to Mulholland. When I reached the top, I took a left and headed west. I lowered the windows and let the cool air in as I felt the first pulls of fatigue from the day grab me. I followed the serpentine road for half a mile, slowing once when my headlights washed across a scruffy coyote standing vigil on the side of the road.

My cell phone buzzed as I had been expecting it to.

“What took you so long to call, Bosch?” I said by way of a greeting.

“I’ve been calling but there’s no cell coverage in the canyon,” Bosch said. “Is this some kind of test? Where the hell are you going? You called and said you were done for the night.”

“I got a call. A … client of mine got busted on a deuce up here. The cop’s giving her a break if I drive her home.”

“From where?”

“The Fryman Canyon overlook. I’m almost there.”

“Who was the cop?”

“Randall Morris. He didn’t say whether he was Hollywood or North Hollywood.”

Mulholland was a boundary between the two police divisions. Morris could work out of either one.

“Okay, pull over until I can check it out.”

“Pull over? Where?”

Mulholland was a winding two-lane road with no pull-over spots except for the overlooks. If you pulled over anywhere else, you would get plowed into by the next car to come around the bend.

“Then, slow down.”

“I’m already here.”

The Fryman Canyon overlook was on the Valley side. I took a right to turn in and drove right by the sign that said that the parking area was closed after sunset.

I didn’t see Lanie’s car or a police cruiser. The parking area was empty. I checked my watch. It had been only twelve minutes since I had told Officer Morris that I would be there in less than fifteen.

“Damn!”

“What?” Bosch asked.

I hit the heel of my palm on the steering wheel. Morris hadn’t waited. He’d gone ahead and taken Lanie to jail.

“What?” Bosch repeated.

“She’s not here,” I said. “And neither is the cop. He took her to jail.”

I would now have to figure out which station Lanie had been transported to and probably spend the rest of the night arranging bail and getting her home. I’d be wrecked in court the next day.