“Yes, here we are.”
Bosch put his glass down next to hers. He then stepped into her and put his hand on the back of her neck. He moved even closer and kissed her, using his other hand to hold her body tightly against his.
Eventually, she slipped her lips off his and they stood cheek to cheek. He felt her hand go inside his jacket and up his side.
“Forget about the moon and the wine,” she whispered. “I want to go inside now.”
“Me, too,” he said.
24
At 10:30 P.M. Bosch walked Hannah Stone out to her car. She had followed him up the hill from the restaurant earlier. She had told him she could not spend the night and he was okay about that. At the car, they held each other in a long embrace. Bosch felt good. The time with her in his bedroom had been wonderful. He had waited a long time for someone like Hannah.
“Call me when you get home, okay?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“I know but call me anyway. I want to know you’re home safe.”
“Okay.”
They looked at each other for a long moment.
“I had a nice time, Harry. I hope you did, too.”
“You know it.”
“Good. I want to do it again.”
He smiled.
“Yeah, me, too.”
She broke away and opened the door to her car.
“Soon,” she said as she got in.
He nodded. They smiled. She started the car and drove off. Harry watched her taillights disappear around a bend in the road and then he went to his own car.
Bosch pulled into the rear lot of Hollywood Division and parked in the first slot he found open. He hoped he was not too late. He got out and walked toward the back door of the station. His phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. It was Hannah.
“You’re home?”
“Made it. Where are you?”
“Hollywood Division. I need to see somebody on P.M. watch.”
“So that’s why you pushed me out the door.”
“Uh, actually, I think you were the one who said you needed to go.”
“Oh. Well, then, okay. Have fun.”
“It’s work. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Bosch walked through the double doors and down the hall to the watch office. There were two custodies cuffed to the bench that ran down the middle of the hall. They were waiting to be processed into the jail. They looked like a couple of Hollywood hustlers who came up short on the hustle.
“Hey, man, you help me out?” one of them asked as Bosch went by.
“Not tonight,” Bosch replied.
Bosch ducked his head into the watch office. There were two sergeants standing side by side, looking at the deployment chart for A.M. watch. No lieutenant. This told Bosch that the next shift was still upstairs in roll call and he hadn’t missed the shift change. He knocked on the glass window next to the door. Both sergeants turned to him.
“Bosch, RHD. Can you call Adam-sixty-five in? I need ten minutes with him.”
“He’s already on the way. He’s first in.”
They staggered the shift change—one car at a time—so the division would not be left with no one on patrol. Usually the first in was the car containing the most senior officer or the patrol team that had had the toughest night.
“You think you can send him over to detectives? I’ll wait over there.”
“You got it.”
Bosch walked back past the custodies and then took a left down the back hallway, past the kit room and into the detective squad room. He had worked in Hollywood Division for many years before his RHD assignment and knew the station well. As expected, the D bureau was deserted. At most Bosch thought he might find a patrol officer writing up his reports but there wasn’t anyone in the room at all.
There were wooden signs hanging from the ceiling above the pods for the different crime units. Bosch went over to the homicide pod and looked for his old partner Jerry Edgar’s desk. He identified it because of a photo taped to the back of the cubicle of Edgar with Tommy Lasorda, the former manager of the Dodgers. Bosch sat down and tried the pen drawer but found it locked. This gave him an idea and he quickly stood back up and scanned all the desks and counters in the squad room until he saw a stack of newspapers on a break table near the front of the room. He walked over and looked through the stack until he found the sports section. He then leafed through it until he found one of the ubiquitous advertisements for pharmaceutical treatment of erectile dysfunction. He tore the ad out and then went back to Edgar’s desk.
Bosch had just finished slipping the ad through the crack above Edgar’s locked desk drawer when a voice surprised him from behind.
“RHD?”
Bosch swiveled around on Edgar’s chair. A uniformed cop was standing by the entrance from the back hallway. He had gray close-cropped hair and a muscular build. He was in his midforties but looked younger, even with the gray hair.