“Hey, Harry, what have you got in the changer these days?”

“Some old Art Pepper live stuff. My kid found it for my birthday. Why, you got something?”

Holodnak was a jazz aficionado like no other Bosch knew. And his tips were usually gold.

“Danny Grissett.”

Bosch recognized the name but had to try to place it. This was the game he and Holodnak often played.

“Piano,” he finally said. “He plays in Tom Harrell’s group, doesn’t he? He’s a local, too.”

Bosch felt proud of himself.

“Right and wrong. He’s from here, but he’s been New York–based for a while now. Saw him with Harrell at the Standard when I was last back there visiting Lili.”

Holodnak’s daughter was a writer living in New York. He went there often and made many jazz discoveries in the clubs he haunted at night when his daughter kicked him out of her apartment so she could write.

“Grissett’s been putting out his own stuff,” he continued. “I recommend a disc called Form. It’s not his latest, but it’s worth a listen. Neo-bop stuff. He’s got a great tenor on there you’d like. Seamus Blake. Check the solo on ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance.’ It’s tight.”

“All right, I’ll check it out,” Bosch said. “And I’ll see you at ten.”

“Wait a minute. Not so fast there, buddy boy,” Holodnak threw right back at him. “Your turn. Give me something.”

That was the rule. Bosch had to give after receiving. He had to give back something that hopefully wasn’t already on Holodnak’s jazz radar. He thought hard. He had disappeared into the Pepper discs Maddie had given him, but before receiving the birthday bounty, he had been attempting to expand his jazz horizons a bit and also to get his daughter interested by going young.

“Grace Kelly,” he said. “Not the princess.”

Holodnak laughed at the ease of the challenge.

“Not the princess, the kid. Young alto sensation. She’s teamed with Woods and Konitz on records. I think the Konitz is better. Next?”

The challenge seemed hopeless to Bosch.

“Okay, one more. How about . . . Gary Smulyan?”

“Hidden Treasures,” Holodnak answered quickly, naming the very disc Bosch was thinking of. “Smulyan on the bari and then just bass and drums in rhythm. Good stuff, Harry. But I got you.”

“Well, someday I’ll get you.”

“Not on my watch. See you at ten.”

Bosch disconnected and checked the clock on the phone. He could let his daughter sleep for another hour, wake her with the smell of a fresh pot of coffee, and cut down on the chances of her being grumpy about being wakened at what she would consider such an early hour on a Sunday. He knew that, grumpy or not, she’d eventually come around and like the plan he had for the day.