The back windows on the wagon were darkly tinted and I couldn’t see in. I moved up to the front and looked into the car through the driver’s side window. I could see that the backseat had been folded flat. Half the rear area was cluttered with open cardboard boxes full of clothes and personal belongings. The other half served as a bed for Patrick Henson. I knew this because he was lying there asleep, his face turned from the light into the folds of a sleeping bag. And it was only then that I remembered something he had said during our first phone conversation when I had asked if he was interested in a job as my driver. He had told me he was living out of his car and sleeping in a lifeguard stand.

I raised my fist to knock on the window but then decided to let Patrick sleep. I wouldn’t need him until later in the morning. There was no need to roust him. I crossed into the office complex, made a turn and headed down a hallway toward the door marked with Jerry Vincent’s name. Standing in front of that door was Detective Bosch. He was listening to his music and waiting for me. He had his hands in his pockets and looked pensive, maybe even a little put out. I was pretty sure we had no appointment, so I didn’t know what he was upset about. Maybe it was the music. He pulled out the earbuds as I approached and put them away.

“What, no coffee?” I said by way of a greeting.

“Not today. I could tell you didn’t want it yesterday.”

He stepped aside so I could use a key to open the door.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“If I said no, you’d ask anyway.”

“You’re probably right.”

I opened the door.

“So then, just ask the question.”

“All right. Well, you don’t seem like an iPod sort of guy to me. Who were you listening to there?”

“Somebody I am sure you never heard of.”

“I get it. It’s Tony Robbins, the self-help guru?”

Bosch shook his head, not rising to take the bait.

“Frank Morgan,” he said.

I nodded.

“The saxophone player? Yeah, I know Frank.”

Bosch looked surprised as we entered the reception area.

“You know him,” he said in a disbelieving tone.

“Yeah, I usually drop by and say hello when he plays at the Catalina or the Jazz Bakery. My father loved jazz and back in the fifties and sixties he was Frank’s lawyer. Frank got into a lot of trouble before he got straight. Ended up playing in San Quentin with Art Pepper — you’ve heard of him, right? By the time I met Frank, he didn’t need any help from a defense attorney. He was doing good.”