could offer nothing further about her purpose there, but Bosch was able to confirm through his own Internet search that Patch Barracks was where the army’s Criminal Investigation Division was located. He also determined that the Stuttgart CID office handled all investigations of alleged war crimes pertaining to Desert Storm.
It seemed obvious to Bosch that Anneke Jespersen had made inquiries at Stuttgart about an alleged crime committed during Desert Storm. Whether what she learned there led her to the United States was unclear. Bosch knew from experience that even his status as a law enforcement officer did little to earn cooperation with the army CID. It seemed to him that a foreign journalist would face an even greater challenge in getting information on a crime that was most likely still under investigation at the time she asked about it.
By noon Bosch had his travel package put together and was ready to go. More so than Chu, it seemed, he was anxious to leave. For Harry, it had nothing to do with overtime pay. He simply had plans for the remainder of the day. He knew his daughter would be waking soon, and the plan was to hit Henry’s Tacos in North Hollywood. It would be lunch for him and breakfast for her. After that, they had preordered tickets for a 3-D movie that Maddie had been waiting to see. This would be followed in the evening with both of them going to dinner with Hannah at a restaurant on Melrose called Craig’s.
“I’m good to go,” Bosch told Chu.
“Then, so am I,” his partner responded.
“Got anything there worth talking about?”
He was referring to Chu’s data sweep on the other names from the 237th. Chu shook his head.
“Nothing to get excited about.”
“Did you get to that search I left a message about last night?”
“Which one?”
“The soldiers interviewed in Jespersen’s story about
Chu snapped his fingers.
“I totally forgot. I got the message late last night and just forgot about it today. I’ll get on it now.”
He turned back to his computer.
“Nah, go home,” Bosch said. “You can hit that tomorrow from home, or back here on Monday. That’s a long shot anyway.”
Chu laughed.
“What?” Bosch asked.
“Nothing, Harry. It’s just that with you, everything’s a long shot.”
Bosch nodded.
“Maybe so. But when one of them pays off . . .”
Now Chu nodded. He had seen enough of Bosch’s long shots pay off.
“I’ll see you, Harry. Be careful up there.”
Bosch had confided in Chu and told him the plan for his “vacation.”
“I’ll keep in touch.”
On Sunday, Bosch got up early, made coffee, and took it and his phone out to the back deck so he could take in the morning. It was cold and damp outside, but Bosch loved Sunday mornings because they were the most peaceful time of the week in the Cahuenga Pass. Low freeway noise, no echo of hammers from various construction projects in the mountain cleft, no coyotes barking.
He checked his watch. He had a call to make but planned to wait until eight. He put the phone on the side table and leaned back on the chaise longue, feeling the morning dew work into the back of his shirt. That was okay with him. It felt good.
Usually he woke up hungry. But not today. The night before at Craig’s, he had eaten half a basket of garlic bread before putting down a Green Goddess salad and the New York strip that followed. This was then topped off with half of his daughter’s bread pudding for desert. The food and conversation had been the best Bosch had had in a long time and he considered the evening a great success. Maddie and Hannah did as well, though they didn’t care what the food tasted like once they spied the actor Ryan Phillippe eating in a back booth with a group of friends.
Now Bosch slowly sipped his coffee and knew it would be his only breakfast. At eight, he slid the door closed and made a call to his friend Bill Holodnak to make sure their plan for the morning—which they had previously set up—was still in play. He spoke in a low voice so he would not be overheard or wake his daughter prematurely. He had learned from experience that hell hath no fury like a teenage girl awakened too early on a day off from school.
“We’re good to go, Harry,” Holodnak said. “I zeroed the lasers yesterday, and no one’s been in there since. I have one question, though. Do you want to go with the blowback option? If so, we’ll put her in armor but she still might want to wear old clothes.”
Holodnak was the LAPD training officer who ran the Force Options Simulator at the academy in Elysian Park.
“I think we’ll skip the blowback this time, Bill.”
“Less cleanup for me. When will you be there?”
“As soon as I can get her up.”
“Been there, done that, with my own. But you gotta give me a time so I’m there.”
“How about ten?”
“That’ll work.”
“Good. See—”
“Hey, Harry, what have you got in the changer these days?”
“Some old Art Pepper live stuff. My kid found it for my birthday. Why, you got something?”
Holodnak was a jazz aficionado like no other Bosch knew. And his tips were usually gold.
“Danny Grissett.”
Bosch recognized the name but had to try to place it. This was the game he and Holodnak often played.
“Piano,” he finally said. “He plays in Tom Harrell’s group, doesn’t he? He’s a local, too.”
Bosch felt proud of himself.
“Right and wrong. He’s from here, but he’s been New York–based for a while now. Saw him with Harrell at the Standard when I was last back there visiting Lili.”
Holodnak’s daughter was a writer living in New York. He went there often and made many jazz discoveries in the clubs he haunted at night when his daughter kicked him out of her apartment so she could write.
“Grissett’s been putting out his own stuff,” he continued. “I recommend a disc called
“All right, I’ll check it out,” Bosch said. “And I’ll see you at ten.”
“Wait a minute. Not so fast there, buddy boy,” Holodnak threw right back at him. “Your turn. Give me something.”
That was the rule. Bosch had to give after receiving. He had to give back something that hopefully wasn’t already on Holodnak’s jazz radar. He thought hard. He had disappeared into the Pepper discs Maddie had given him, but before receiving the birthday bounty, he had been attempting to expand his jazz horizons a bit and also to get his daughter interested by going young.
“Grace Kelly,” he said. “Not the princess.”
Holodnak laughed at the ease of the challenge.
“Not the princess, the kid. Young alto sensation. She’s teamed with Woods and Konitz on records. I think the Konitz is better. Next?”
The challenge seemed hopeless to Bosch.
“Okay, one more. How about . . . Gary Smulyan?”
“
“Well, someday I’ll get you.”
“Not on my watch. See you at ten.”
Bosch disconnected and checked the clock on the phone. He could let his daughter sleep for another hour, wake her with the smell of a fresh pot of coffee, and cut down on the chances of her being grumpy about being
