Chu was not in the cubicle when Bosch got back to the PAB. He checked the clock on the wall and saw that it was only 3 P.M. If his partner had left for the day early to make up for the long hours the day before and without running the serial numbers through the DOJ computer, Bosch would be livid. He stepped over and hit the space bar on Chu’s keyboard. The screen lit but it was his password gateway. He scanned Chu’s desk for a printout of a DOJ gun registry form but saw nothing. Rick Jackson’s cubicle was on the other side of the four-foot separation wall.

“You seen Chu?” Bosch asked him.

Jackson straightened up in his chair and looked around the squad room as if he would be able to recognize Chu, whereas Bosch could not.

“No . . . he was here. I think he might’ve gone to the head or something.”

Bosch glanced into the lieutenant’s office just to make sure Chu wasn’t closeted with O’Toole. He wasn’t. O’Toole was hunched over his desk, writing something.

Bosch moved over to his own desk. There were no printouts left for him but he did see a card left by Nancy Mendenhall, detective III, of the Professional Standards Bureau.

“So, Harry . . .,” Jackson said in a low voice. “I hear the Tool filed a beef on you.”

“Yeah.”

“Is it bullshit?”

“Yeah.”

Jackson shook his head.

“I figured. What an ass.”

Jackson had been around longer than anybody in the squad except Bosch. He knew that the play by O’Toole would ultimately hurt him more than it would Bosch. Now nobody in the squad would trust him. Nobody would tell him more than the minimum required. Some supervisors inspired their squad’s best work. Now the detectives of the Open-Unsolved Unit would give their best effort in spite of the man in charge.

Bosch pulled his chair out and sat down. He looked at Mendenhall’s card and considered calling her, confronting the bullshit beef head-on and dealing with it. He opened the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out the old leather address book he’d had for going on three decades. He found the number he could not remember before and called the League’s Defense Assistance line. He gave his name, rank, and assignment within the department and said he needed to speak to a defense rep. The unit’s supervisor told him there wasn’t a rep available at the moment but that he would get a call back without delay. He almost pointed out that there was already a delay but just thanked the supervisor and disconnected.

Almost immediately a shadow loomed over his desk, and Bosch looked up to see O’Toole hovering. He had his suit jacket on, and that told Bosch he was probably heading up to the tenth floor.

“Where have you been, Detective?”