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“Well, thanks a lot, Dad.”
“Come on, Maddie. Would you rather I not tell you these things?”
“No, you’re good. But I have to go now. I need to check the doors and windows.”
“Well, fine, do that, but like I said, I don’t — ”
“Bye, Dad. Good talk.”
And she was gone.
“Shit,” Bosch said.
He thought about calling her back but knew it would probably only get her more upset. But he believed that the call had served the purpose of putting his daughter on alert. It just set their personal relationship back.
As he drove home, Bosch tried to concentrate on everything that had been revealed to him in the past three hours. As he reviewed what Cutler, Cavanaugh, and Shear had said, he remembered that Cutler had brought up the meeting in the garage with Novak and seemed to know that Novak had not recognized Bosch.
If Cutler knew about that conversation, then one of the people in the garage had to be the Bureau’s inside source. He had somehow gotten word to the feds that Novak had not identified Bosch.
Shortly after arriving at this conclusion Bosch flashed on what Topknot had said after Bosch clapped him on the ears. One word: Wait.
Bosch had to consider what that meant. Was Topknot just trying to stop further attack? Or was he about to tell him he was not the enemy, that he was working for the FBI?
By the time he got home, Bosch was convinced that Topknot was the inside man and had been trying to tell Bosch so.
Wait, I’m on your side.
Wait, I’m working for the FBI.
Wait, I’m an undercover agent.
Wait…
Any way he cut it, Bosch now understood where some of the animosity he had sensed in Cavanaugh was coming from.
Bosch parked in the carport and stayed behind the wheel for a long moment with his eyes on the rearview. He waited to see if a follow car would go by, but none did. He finally got out and went through the side door into the kitchen. He realized he was hungry but knew he had little in the refrigerator or pantry that would satisfy him. He got a carton of eggs out and made himself a six-egg scramble. He heavily seasoned it with pepper and went out to the deck to eat, standing up at the rail and holding his plate.
It was dark now and the freeway below was a ribbon of lights from the traffic moving slowly but steadily through the pass. It was a big and crowded world out there and most of the people moving through it knew little about the dangers that Bosch knew about. He did not consider this a burden. It was simply his fate to be vigilant for those who were not. Over time he had come to believe it was an honor.
He picked up the binoculars and turned on the night-vision lens. He scanned the treetops, first checking on the hawks’ nest, where there was no visible activity, then slowly moving through the branches of the other trees in search of the owl.
Shortly after, he gave up on the owl, went back inside, and fired up his laptop. He started writing a linear summary of his nascent investigation into the death of Charles Lamb. He knew Cavanaugh wanted it first thing, and Bosch wanted to get it out of the way so he could dive into the Wonderland murder books as soon as he was back in the task force room.
When he finished, his report totaled five pages and was heavy with the information gleaned from the probation officer Vernon Bishop. Bosch did not include the fact that the information had come while Bishop was in a hypnotic trance, but he did mention that the interview took place at a memory-care center where Bishop was a patient.
Bosch also named Bobby Walker, the current and only resident of what had been MacLaren Hall, in his report. He wanted to be thorough so Cavanaugh would have no reason to come back at him with a critique.
When he was finished editing and rewriting, Bosch saw that it was after midnight. It had been a long day and he guessed that the days ahead might get longer. He printed out the report and left it on the laptop so he would not forget to bring it with him in the morning.
He headed down the hall to his bedroom. He was bone-tired and his body ached. He planned on more Tylenol and knew he would sleep like the dead.
24
1965
THEY SAT ON the stoop smoking cigarettes, Chops still wearing the black rubber apron the dish loader always used so the garbage and grime could easily be washed off.
It was their last night working together. Bosch had brought the transistor radio out with him although baseball season hadn’t started yet. He’d brought it for another reason.
