“The ninth is where they put the REACT squad,” Lindell said, pulling me out of the reverie. “They’re heavy hitters, Bosch. You walk out in front of them in the street and they won’t stop. They won’t even tap the brakes.”

“What’s REACT?”

I knew it had to be another federal acronym. All law enforcement agencies are good for putting together acronyms. But the feds are the best at it.

“Regional Response . . . no, it’s Rapid Enforcement Against something Terrorism. I forget the whole thing—oh, I got it, Rapid Response Enforcement And Counterterrorism. That’s it.”

“That one must’ve come straight out of the director’s office in D.C. That took some thought.”

“Funny. Basically, it’s a multi-agency gang bang. You’ve got us, Secret Service, DEA, everybody.”

I figured that last “everybody” was a catchall for the agencies that didn’t like their initials bandied about. NSA, CIA, DIA and so on through the federal alphabet.

A man on a bike rode by the Benz and slapped the side view mirror hard, making Lindell jump. The biker kept going, keeping his gloved hand up and giving me the finger. I realized I had pulled over in the bike lane and pulled the Benz back out onto the street.

“These fucking bikers think they own the road,” Lindell said. “Pull up next to him and I’ll give him a whack.”

Ignoring the request, I sped past the biker, giving him a wide berth.

“I don’t get it, Roy. What does the ninth floor have to do with my case?”

“First of all, it’s not your case anymore. Secondly, I don’t know. They ask me the questions. I don’t get to ask them.”

“When did they start asking?”

“Today. You call up and ask about Marty Gessler and tell Nunez it has something to do with the movie money case. He comes to me and I tell him to have you come in. Meantime, I start doing some checking. Turns out, we’ve got the movie money caper listed on our computer. With a REACT flag on it. So I call down to the ninth and say, ‘What’s up, fellas?’ and two seconds later I get crapped on pretty good.”

“You were told to find out what I know, then shut me down and send me on my way. Oh, and to tape it so they could listen and make sure you were a good little agent and did what you were told to do.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“So why’d you let me read the file? And take it? Why are we driving around talking?”

Lindell took his time before responding. We had made the curve onto Ocean Boulevard in Santa Monica. I pulled off the road again next to the cliffs that look down to the beach and the Pacific. The horizon was blurred white by the marine layer. The Ferris wheel on the Pacific Park pier stood still, and without its neon blazing.

“I did it because Marty Gessler was a friend of mine.”