Bosch knew that there were many different ways to get souvenir weapons home. The practice was as old as the army itself. When he had served in Vietnam, the easy way was to break the gun down and mail the parts home separately over the course of several weeks.

“What are you thinking, Detective?”

Bosch chuckled.

“I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking that I have to figure out who brought that gun over here. My victim was a journalist and photographer. She covered that war. I read a story she wrote on the Highway of Death. I saw her photos . . .”

Bosch had to consider that Anneke Jespersen had brought the gun she was killed with to Los Angeles. It seemed unlikely, but he could not discount the fact that she had been in the same place the gun was last accounted for.

“When did they start using metal detectors at airports?” he asked.

“Oh, that goes way back,” Wingo said. “That started with all the hijackings in the seventies. But scanning checked baggage is different. That is much more recent and it’s not very consistent either.”

Bosch shook his head.

“She traveled light. I don’t think she was the type who checked bags.”

He couldn’t see it. It didn’t make sense that Anneke Jespersen had somehow picked up a dead or captured Iraqi soldier’s gun and smuggled it home and then again into the United States, only to be killed with it.

“That doesn’t sound promising,” Wingo said. “But if you could put together a census of the neighborhood where your victim was killed, you could find out who served in the military and in the Persian Gulf War. If there was someone living in the vicinity of the murder who had just come back . . .

“You know a lot was said back then about Gulf War Syndrome, exposure to chemicals and heat. A lot of incidents of violence back home were attributed to that war. The soldier at Fort Bragg—that was his defense.”

Bosch nodded but he was no longer listening to Wingo. Things were suddenly coming together, words and pictures and memories . . . visions of that night in the alley off Crenshaw. Of soldiers lining the street. Of black-and-white photos of soldiers on the Highway of Death . . . the blown-up barracks in Dhahran and the smoking hulk of an army Humvee . . . the lights on the Humvee they brought into the alley . . .

Bosch leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and ran his hands back through his hair.

“Are you all right, Detective Bosch?” Wingo asked.

“I’m fine. I’m good.”

“Well, you don’t look it.”

“I think they were there . . .”

“Who was where?”

His hands still on top of his head, he realized he had spoken out loud. He turned to look at Wingo over his shoulder. He didn’t answer her question.

“You did it, Agent Wingo. I think you opened the black box.”

He stood up and looked down at her.