“We do the work, we clear the cases, and you ride up the elevator to get the pat on the back.”

Bosch stood up, coming face-to-face with O’Toole.

“That’s why I don’t have time for you or your bullshit.”

He walked away, heading to the door Chu had gone through, while O’Toole headed to the door leading to the elevator alcove.

Bosch pushed through the door and into the hallway. One side was a wall of glass, affording a view of the front plaza and off toward the heart of the civic center. Chu was standing at the glass, looking toward the familiar spire of City Hall.

“Chu, what’s going on?”

Chu was startled by his sudden appearance.

“Hey, Harry, sorry, I forgot something and . . . then I . . . uh . . .”

“What, you forget to wipe your ass? I’ve been waiting. What happened with the DOJ?”

“Yeah, no hits, Harry. Sorry.”

“No hits? Did you run all ten possibles?”

“I did, but no California transactions. The gun wasn’t sold in the state. Somebody brought it here and it was never registered.”

Bosch put his hand on the railing and leaned his forehead on the glass. He could see City Hall reflected in the long wall of glass running on the perpendicular hallway. He was resigned that his luck couldn’t get any worse.

“You got anybody at ATF?” he asked.

“Not really,” Chu said. “Don’t you?”

“Not really. Nobody who can expedite. I waited four months just for them to run the casing through their computer.”

Bosch didn’t mention that he also had a checkered history of interactions with federal law enforcement agencies. He couldn’t count on anyone doing him a favor at the ATF or anywhere else. He knew if he went through standard procedure and filled out the forms, he might hear something back in six weeks minimum.

He had one shot he could try. He stepped away from the glass wall and headed back to the squad room door.

“Harry, where are you going?” Chu asked.

“Back to work.”

Chu started following him.

“I wanted to talk to you about one of my cases. We have to do a pickup in Minnesota.”

Bosch stopped at the door to the squad room. A “pickup” was what they called going to another state to confront and arrest a suspect in a cold case. Usually, the suspect had been connected to an old murder through DNA or fingerprint evidence. There was a map on the wall in the squad room with red pins marking all the pickup locations the squad had been to in the ten years since it was established. Dozens of pins were scattered across the map.

“Which case?” Bosch asked.

“Stilwell. I finally located him in Minneapolis. When can you go?”

“Talk about a cold case. We’re going to freeze our butts off up there.”

“I know. What do you think? I have to put in the travel request.”