Bosch next opened his Thomas Bros. map book and used a pencil to chart the murders on the grid work of the city. The first five murders all fit on one page of the thick map book, the killings occurring within the confines of Rolling 60s turf. The last case, the killing of Trumont Story, was on the next map page. His body had been found lying on a sidewalk in Circle Park, which was in the heart of 7-Trey turf.

Bosch studied the map for a long time, flipping the pages back and forth. Considering that Jordy Gant said Story had most likely been dumped in the location where his body was found, Bosch concluded that he was looking at a very small concentration point in the city. Six murders, possibly just one gun used. And it had all started with the one murder that did not fit with those that followed. Anneke Jespersen, photojournalist, murdered in a spot far from home.

“Snow White,” Bosch whispered.

He opened the Jespersen murder book and looked at the photo from her press pass. He could not fathom what she had been doing out there on her own and what had happened.

Harry pulled the black box across the desk. Just as he opened it, his cell phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Hannah Stone, the woman he had been in a relationship with for nearly a year.

“Happy birthday, Harry!”

“Who told you?”

“A little bird.”

His daughter.

“She ought to mind her own business.”

“I think it is her business. I know she probably has you all to herself tonight, so I was calling to see if I could take you out for a birthday lunch.”

Bosch checked his watch. It was already noon.

“Today?”

“Today’s your birthday, isn’t it? I would’ve called earlier but my group session went long. Come on, what do you say? You know we have the best taco trucks in the city up here.”

Bosch knew he needed to talk to her about San Quentin.

“I don’t know about that claim, but if I get good traffic, I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“Perfect.”

“See you.”

He disconnected and looked at the black box on his desk. He’d get to it after lunch.

They decided on a sit-down restaurant instead of a taco truck. Upscale wasn’t really a choice in Panorama City, so they drove down to Van Nuys and ate in the basement cafeteria of the courthouse. It wasn’t exactly upscale either but there was an old jazzman who played a baby grand in the corner most days. It was one of the secrets of the city that Bosch knew. Hannah was impressed. They took a table close to the music.

They split a turkey sandwich and each had a bowl of soup. The music smoothed over the quiet spots in the conversation. Bosch was learning to get comfortable with Hannah. He had met her while working a case the year before. She was a therapist who worked with sexual offenders after their release from prison. It was tough work and it gave her some of the same dark knowledge of the world that Bosch carried.