“Yeah, that he went out. Why? The city was burning. There were no rules, just anarchy, and he left safety to go see it. As far as we could ever tell, somebody just drove by and popped him from a car. No witnesses, no motive, no evidence. It was a loser the day I got the case and I knew it. I remember talking to his parents on the phone. They were up in Salt Lake City. They couldn’t understand how this could’ve happened to their boy. They viewed L.A. like it was some other planet that he had gone to. It was beyond their concept.”

“Yeah,” Bosch said.

There was nothing else to say.

“Anyway,” Harrod said, shaking off the memory. “I better wash up, Harry. My wife’s making pasta tonight.”

“Sounds good, Gary. Thanks for your help.”

“What help?”

“You helped. Let me know if you think of anything else.”

“You got it.”

Bosch hung up and tried to think if he knew anybody who would have worked in Devonshire twenty years ago. Back then it was the quietest yet geographically largest police division, covering the entire northwest corner of the city in the San Fernando Valley. It was known as Club Dev because the station was new and the workload light.

Bosch realized that Larry Gandle, a former Open-Unsolved Unit lieutenant, had spent time in Devonshire in the nineties and might know who the Danish-speaking patrol officer was. Bosch called Gandle’s office. He was now the captain in charge of RHD.

Bosch’s call was put through without delay. Harry explained what and who he was looking for, and Gandle gave him the bad news.

“Yeah, you’re talking about Magnus Vestergaard, but he’s dead at least ten years now. Motorcycle accident.”

“Damn.”

“What did you need him for?”

“He did some Danish translation work on a case I’m looking at. I wanted to see what he remembered that’s not in the book.”

“Sorry about that, Harry.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

As soon as Bosch put down the phone, it rang while still in his hand. It was Lieutenant O’Toole.

“Detective, can you come into my office for a moment?”

“Sure thing.”

Bosch killed his computer screen and got up. A summons to O’Toole’s office was not a good thing. He felt several eyes in the squad room following him as he made his way to the corner office. It was bright inside. The blinds over the windows that looked out on the squad were open as well as the exterior windows that had a view of the Los Angeles Times Building. The previous lieutenant always kept these closed out of fear that the reporters were watching.

“What’s up, L-T?” Bosch asked.

“I’ve got something I want you to run with.”

“What do you mean?”