After leaving the PSB, Jackson and Bosch took one of the ornately designed elevators down to the lobby. To Bosch, the century-old Bradbury Building was far and away the most beautiful building in the city. The only blemish on its image was the fact that it housed the Professional Standards Bureau. As they crossed the lobby beneath the atrium to the West Third Street exit, Bosch could smell the fresh bread being baked for the lunch rush in the sandwich shop next to the building’s main entrance. That was another thing that always bothered him. Not only was the PSB housed in one of the city’s hidden gems and not only were there fireplaces in some of the offices, but the place also smelled so damn good every time Bosch was there.

Jackson was quiet as they moved through the lobby and then turned left into the dimly lit side-exit lobby. There was a bench with a bronze statue of Charlie Chaplin sitting on it. Jackson sat down next to the figure and signaled Bosch to the other side.

“What?” Bosch said as he sat down. “We should get back.”

Jackson was upset. He shook his head and leaned across Charlie Chaplin’s lap so he could whisper.

“Harry,” he said. “I think you’re really screwed on this.”

Bosch didn’t understand Jackson’s mood or his apparent surprise that the department would go to this length over a fifteen-minute interview in San Quentin. But to Bosch this was nothing new. The first time he got dinged by Internal Affairs was thirty-five years earlier. He caught a beef for stopping by a dry cleaner’s—which was on his beat—to pick up his pressed uniforms while on his way to the station at the end of watch. Since then, nothing surprised him about how the department policed its own.

“So what,” he said dismissively. “Let her sustain the complaint. What’s the worst they could give me? Three days? A week? I’ll take my kid to Hawaii.”

Jackson shook his head again.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Now Bosch was thoroughly confused.

“Don’t get what? It’s Internal Affairs, no matter what they’re calling it now. What’s not to get?”

“This is not just about a week’s suspension. You’re on the DROP, man. That’s a contract and you don’t have the same protections—that’s probably why nobody from the League called you back. A contract can be voided on a CUBO.”