“Stay out of the kitchen,” she said. “Go out on the deck till I tell you it’s ready. And put that work on the shelf—at least until after dinner. Turn on the music, too.”

“Yes, boss.”

The dining-room table was set for two. After putting the murder book literally on a shelf in the bookcase behind it, he turned on the stereo and opened the CD drawer. His daughter had already loaded the tray with five of his favorite discs. Frank Morgan, George Cables, Art Pepper, Ron Carter, and Thelonious Monk. He set it on random play and stepped out onto the deck.

Outside on the table, there was a bottle of Fat Tire waiting for him in a clay flowerpot filled with ice. This puzzled him. Fat Tire was one of his favorite beers, but he rarely kept alcohol in the house and knew he had not purchased any beer recently. His daughter, at sixteen, looked older than her years but not old enough to buy beer without getting her driver’s license checked.

He cracked open the bottle and took a long pull. It felt good going down, burning the back of his throat with its cold bite. It was a welcome relief after a day of walking the gun and narrowing in on Charles Washburn.

A plan had been set with the help of Jordy Gant. By the last roll call the next day, all patrol officers and gang units in South Bureau would have seen Washburn’s photo and been told he was a high-priority pickup. The legal cause would be the child-support warrant, but once Washburn was in custody, Bosch would be alerted and he would go see him with something else to talk about entirely.

Still, Bosch could not rest on a BOLO. He had work to do. Forgetting it was his birthday, he had brought the murder book home with the plan of combing through every page, looking for any reference to Washburn and anything else he had missed or not followed up on.

But now he was rethinking that plan. His daughter was making him a birthday dinner and that would be his priority. There could be nothing better in the world than to have her full attention.

Beer in hand, Bosch looked out across the canyon where he had lived for more than twenty years. He knew its colors and contours by heart. He knew the sound of the freeway from down at the bottom. He knew the trail the coyotes took into the deeper vegetation. And he knew he never wanted to leave this place. He was here till the end.

“Okay, it’s ready. I hope it’s good.”

Bosch turned. Maddie had slid the door open without him hearing it. He smiled. She had also slipped out of the kitchen and put on a dress for the sit-down meal.

“Can’t wait,” he said.

The food was already on the table. Pork chops and applesauce and roasted potatoes. A handmade cake had been placed to the side of the table.