Mr. Bonn, thank you for this. Is it possible for me to speak directly to Jannik Frej? Can he speak English at all? The investigation is gathering speed and this particular process is moving too slowly, taking a whole day to receive answers to my questions. If I cannot speak directly to him, can we set up a conference call so that you can translate? Please respond as soon as

The phone on Bosch’s desk rang and he grabbed it without taking his eyes off his computer screen.

“Bosch.”

“This is Lieutenant O’Toole.”

Bosch turned and glanced toward the corner office. He could see through the open blinds that O’Toole was at his desk, looking directly back at him.

“What’s up, L-T?”

“Did you not see my note telling you I needed to see you immediately?”

“Yes, I got it last night but you were already gone. Today I didn’t realize you were here yet. I had to send an important email to Denmark. Things are—”

“I want you in my office. Now.”

“On my way.”

Bosch quickly finished typing the email and sent it. He then got up and went to the lieutenant’s office, surveying the squad room as he went. No one else was in yet, just O’Toole and him. Whatever was about to happen, there would be no independent witnesses.

As Bosch entered the office, O’Toole told him to sit down. Bosch did so.

“Is this about the Death Squad case? Because I—”

“Who is Shawn Stone?”

“What?”

“I said who is Shawn Stone?”

Bosch hesitated, trying to figure out what O’Toole was trying to do. He instinctively knew that the best move was to play it wide open and honest.

“He’s a convicted rapist serving a sentence at San Quentin.”

“And what is your business with him?”

“I don’t have any business with him.”

“Did you speak to him Monday when you were up there?”

O’Toole was looking at a single-page document that he held in both hands, elbows on his desk.

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you deposit one hundred dollars in his prison canteen account?”

“Yes, I did that, too. What’s—”

“Since you say you have no business with him, what is your relationship with him?”

“He’s the son of a friend of mine. I had some extra time up there, so I asked to see him. Previously, I had never met him before.”

O’Toole frowned, his eyes still on the paper he held between his two hands.

“So at taxpayers’ expense, you paid a visit to your friend’s son and dropped a hundred into his canteen account. Do I have that right?”

Bosch paused as he sized up the situation. He knew what O’Toole was doing.