“It was, unless we got a call or something. But even then it was all small-time shit—I mean, stuff. Shoplifting, prostitution, drug dealing—little stuff. Anyway, almost every day we’d get yelled at by somebody passing in a car. You know, they’d call us fascists and pigs and other stuff. And the French Dip hated being called a pig. You could call him a fascist or a Nazi or almost anything else, but he hated being called a pig. So, what he would do when a car went by and they called us pigs was he’d get the make and model and plate number off the car and he’d pull out his ticket book and write the car up for a parking violation. Then he’d tear out the copy you were supposed to leave under the windshield wiper and he’d just crumple it up and throw it away.”

Bosch laughed again as he took a bite of his grilled cheese with tomato and onion.

“I don’t get it,” Maddie said. “Why is that so funny?”

“Well, he would turn in his copy of the ticket, and, of course, the car owner wouldn’t know anything about it and the ticket would go unpaid and then to warrant. So the guy who called us pigs would eventually someday get stopped and there’d be a warrant for his arrest, and that was the French Dip’s way of getting the last laugh.”

He ate a French fry before finishing.

“What I was laughing about was the first time I was on the beat with him when he did it. I said, ‘What are you doing?’ and he told me. And I said, ‘That’s not in policy, is it?’ and he said, ‘It’s in my policy!’”

Bosch laughed again but his daughter only shook her head. Harry decided the story was funny only to him and went back to finishing his sandwich. He soon got down to telling her what he had been putting off all weekend.

“So listen, I have to go out of town for a few days. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“Just up to the Central Valley, the Modesto area, to talk to some people on a case. I’ll be back either Tuesday night or maybe have to stay till Wednesday. I won’t know until I get there.”

“Okay.”

He braced himself.

“And so I want Hannah to stay with you.”

“Dad, no one has to stay with me. I’m sixteen and I have a gun. I’m fine.”

“I know that but I want her to stay. It will just make me feel better. Can you do that for me?”

She shook her head but agreed halfheartedly.

“I guess. I just don’t—”