“What’s tomorrow look like, Walter?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, if not tonight, then tomorrow. We need to get started. You don’t want a delay; I want to be even more prepared than I am now. We need to talk and go over things. There are a few gaps in the defense case and I think you can help me fill them in. I could come back to the studio or meet you anywhere else in the afternoon.”

I heard muffled voices as he conferred with Mrs. Albrecht.

“I have a four o’clock open,” he finally said. “Here at the bungalow.”

“Okay, I’ll be there. And cancel whatever you have at five. We’re going to need at least a couple hours to start.”

Elliot agreed to the two hours and we were about to end the conversation, when I thought of something else.

“Walter, I want to see the crime scene. Can I get into the house in Malibu tomorrow sometime before we meet?”

Again there was a pause.

“When?”

“You tell me what will work.”

Again he covered the phone and I heard his muffled conversation with Mrs. Albrecht. Then he came back on the line with me.

“How about eleven? I’ll have someone meet you there to let you in.”

“That’ll work. See you tomorrow, Walter.”

I closed the phone and looked at Cisco in the mirror.

“We got him.”

Cisco hit the Lincoln’s horn in celebration. It was a long blast that made the driver in front of us hold up a fist and send us back the finger. Out in the street the striking writers took the blast as a sign of support from inside the hated studio. I heard a loud cheer go up from the masses.

Fifteen

Bosch arrived early the next morning. He was alone. His peace offering was the extra cup of coffee he carried and handed over to me. I don’t drink coffee anymore — trying to avoid any addiction in my life — but I took it from him anyway, thinking that maybe the smell of caffeine would get me going. It was only 7:45 but I had been in Jerry Vincent’s office for more than two hours already.

I led Bosch back into the file room. He looked more tired than I felt and I was pretty sure he was in the same suit he’d been wearing when I saw him the day before.

“Long night?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Chasing leads or chasing tail?”

It was a question I had once heard one detective ask another in a courthouse hallway. I guess it was a question reserved for brothers of the badge because it didn’t go over so well with Bosch. He made some sort of guttural noise and didn’t answer.

In the file room I told him to have a seat at the small table. There was a yellow legal tablet on the table, but no files. I took the other seat and put my coffee down.

“So,” I said, picking up the legal pad.