Lundy and John Parkyn. They ignored Bosch because he was too old and asked Ferras for his ID.
“Who are you looking for?” Bosch asked.
“That’s government business, sir. We just need to check some IDs.”
Ferras opened his badge wallet. On one side it had his photo and police ID and on the other side his detective’s badge. It seemed to freeze the two agents.
“It’s funny,” Bosch said. “If you’re looking at IDs that means you have a name. But I never gave Agent Brenner the witness’s name. Makes me wonder. You guys over there in Tactical Intelligence don’t happen to have a bug in our computer or maybe our squad room, do you?”
Lundy, the one obviously in charge of the pickup detail, looked squarely at Bosch. His eyes were as gray as gravel.
“And you are?” he asked.
“You want to see my ID, too? I haven’t passed for a twenty-year-old in a long time, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”
He pulled out his badge wallet and handed it to Lundy unopened. The agent opened it and examined the contents very closely. He took his time.
“Hieronymus Bosch,” he said, reading the name on the ID. “Wasn’t there some sick creep of a painter named that? Or have I got it confused with one of the bottom-feeders I’ve read about in the overnights.”
Bosch smiled back at him.
“Some people consider the painter a master of the Renaissance period,” he said.
Lundy dropped the badge wallet on Bosch’s plate. Bosch hadn’t finished his eggs yet but luckily the yolks were overcooked.
“I don’t know what the game is here, Bosch. Where’s Jesse Mitford?”
Bosch picked up his badge wallet and used his napkin to clean egg debris off it. He took his time, put the wallet away and then he looked back up at Lundy.
“Who’s Jesse Mitford?”
Lundy leaned down and put both hands on the table.
“You know damn well who he is and we need to take him in.”
Bosch nodded as though he understood the situation perfectly.
“We can talk about Mitford and everything else at the meeting at ten. Right after I interview Kent ’s partner and his wife.”
Lundy smiled in a way that carried no friendliness or humor.
“You know something, pal? You’re going to need a Renaissance period yourself when this is all over.”
Bosch smiled again.
“See you at the meeting, Agent Lundy. In the meantime, we’re eating. Can you go bother somebody else?”
Bosch picked up his knife and started spreading strawberry jam from a little plastic container on his last piece of toast.
Lundy straightened up and pointed at Bosch’s chest.
“You better be careful, Bosch.”
With that he turned and headed toward the door. He signaled to the other team of agents and pointed toward the exit. Bosch watched them go.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said.
ELEVEN
THE SUN WAS STILL BELOW the ridgeline but dawn had a full grip on the sky. In daylight the Mulholland overlook showed no sign of the violence of the night before. Even the debris usually left behind at a crime scene- rubber gloves, coffee cups and yellow tape-had somehow been cleaned up or maybe had blown away. It was as if Stanley Kent had not been shot to death, his body never left on the promontory with the jetliner view of the city below. Bosch had investigated hundreds of murders during his time with the badge. He never got over how quickly the city seemed to heal itself-at least outwardly-and move on. To act as though nothing had ever happened.
Bosch kicked at the soft, orange ground and watched the dirt drop over the edge into the brush below. He made a decision and headed back toward the car. Ferras watched him go.
“What are you going to do?” Ferras asked.
“I’m going in. If you’re coming, get in the car.”
Ferras hesitated and then trotted after Bosch. They got back in the Crown Vic and drove over to Arrowhead Drive. Bosch knew that the feds had Alicia Kent but he still had the key ring from her husband’s Porsche.
The fed car they had spotted when they had driven by ten minutes earlier was still parked in front of the Kent house. Bosch pulled into the driveway, got out and headed with purpose to the front door. He ignored the car in the street, even when he heard its door open. He managed to find the right key and get it into the lock before they were hit with a voice from behind.
“FBI. Hold it right there.”
Bosch put his hand on the knob.
“Do not open that door.”
Bosch turned and looked at the man approaching on the front walkway. He knew that whoever was assigned to watch the house would be the lowest man on the Tactical Intelligence totem pole, a screwup or an agent with baggage. He knew he could use this to his advantage.
“LAPD Homicide Special,” he said. “We’re just going to finish up in here.”
“No, you’re not,” the agent said. “The bureau has taken over jurisdiction of this investigation and will be handling everything from here on out.”
“Sorry, man, I didn’t get the memo,” Bosch said. “If you’ll excuse us.”
He turned back to the door.
“Do not open that door,” the agent said again. “This is a national security investigation now. You can check with your superiors.”
Bosch shook his head.
“You may have superiors. I have supervisors.”
“Whatever. You’re not going into that house.”
“Harry,” Ferras said. “Maybe we-”
Bosch waved a hand and cut him off. He turned back to the agent.
“Let me see some ID,” he said.
The agent put an exasperated look on his face and dug out his creds. He flipped them open and held them out. Bosch was ready. He grabbed the agent by the wrist and pivoted. The agent’s body came forward and past him and Bosch used a forearm to press him face first against the door. He pulled his hand-still clutching his credentials-behind his back.
The agent started struggling and protesting but it was too late. Bosch leaned his shoulder into him to keep him against the door and slipped his free hand under the man’s jacket. He found and jerked the handcuffs off the agent’s belt and started cuffing him up.
“Harry, what are you doing?” Ferras yelled.
“I told you. Nobody’s pushing us aside.”
Once he had the agent’s hands cuffed behind him he grabbed the credentials out of his hand. He opened them and checked the name. Clifford Maxwell. Bosch turned him around and shoved the creds into the side pocket of his jacket.
“Your career is over,” Maxwell said calmly.
“Tell me about it,” Bosch said.
Maxwell looked at Ferras.
“You go along with this and you’re in the toilet, too,” he said. “You better think about it.”
“Shut up, Cliff,” Bosch said. “The only one who is going to be in the toilet is you when you go back to Tactical
