“Why?”

“Well, because I have misplaced her name. Actually, I never got it because she spoke to one of the other investigators on the case. But I would like to speak to her, if I could.”

“Speak to her about what? You said you are retired.”

I knew it would come to this, and this is where I was weak. I had no station, no validity. You either had a badge that opened all doors or you didn’t. I didn’t.

“Some cases die hard, Agent Nunez. I’m still working it. Nobody else is, so I figured I’d take the shot. You know how it is.”

“No, actually, I don’t. I’m not retired.”

A real hard-ass. He was silent after that and I found myself getting angry with this faceless man who was probably trying to balance a burdensome caseload with a lack of manpower and funding. L.A. was the bank robbery capital of the world. Three a day was the norm and the FBI had to respond to every one of them.

“Look, man,” I said. “I don’t want to waste your time. You can either help me or not. You either know who I am talking about or you don’t.”

“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”

But then he was silent. I tried one last angle. I had held it back because I wasn’t sure I wanted it known in some circles what I was doing. But the visit from Kiz Rider sort of shot that down anyway.

“Look, you want a name, somebody you can check me out with? Call over to Hollywood detectives and ask for the lieutenant. Her name is Billets and she can vouch for me. She won’t know anything about this though. As far as she knows, I’m swinging in a hammock.”

“All right, I’ll do that. Why don’t you call me back? Give me ten minutes.”

“Right. I will.”

I closed the phone and checked my watch. It was almost three. I started the Mercedes and drove down to Sunset and headed east. I turned on the radio but didn’t like the fusion that was playing. I turned it back off. At the ten-minute mark I pulled to the curb in front of the Splendid Age Retirement Home. I picked up the phone to call Nunez back and it rang in my hand. I thought maybe Nunez had caller ID on his line and had gotten the number. But then I remembered I had been transferred to his line. I didn’t think an ID record could jump with a transfer.

“Harry Bosch.”

“Harry, it’s Jerry.”

Jerry Edgar. It was turning into old home week. First Kiz Rider and now Jerry Edgar.

“Jed, how you doing?”

“I’m fine, man. How’s the retiring life?”

“It’s very restful.”

“You don’t sound like you’re on the beach, Harry.”

He was right. The Splendid Age was just yards from the Hollywood Freeway and the din of gas-combustion machinery was ever present. Quentin McKinzie told me that they house the Splendid Age residents with hearing loss in the rooms on the west side because they are closer to the noise.

“I’m not a beach guy. What’s up? Don’t tell me that eight months after I’m gone you actually want to ask my advice on something?”

“Nah, it’s not that. I just got a call from somebody who was checking you out.”

I was immediately embarrassed. My pride had led me to conclude that Edgar needed me on a case.

“Oh. Was it a bureau agent named Nunez?”

“Yeah, he didn’t say what it was about, though. You starting a new career or something, Harry?”

“Thinking about it.”

“You ever get your private ticket?”

“Yeah, about six months ago, just in case. I stuck it in a drawer somewhere. What did you tell Nunez? I hope you said I was a man of high moral standing and courage.”

“Absolutely not. I gave him the straight dope. I said you could trust Harry Bosch about as far as you could throw him.”

I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Thanks, man. You’re a pal.”

“I just thought you should know. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

I was silent for a moment as I thought about this. I didn’t want to tell Edgar what I was doing. Not that I didn’t trust him. I did. But as a rule I operated under the belief that the fewer people who know your business the better.

“Not right now, Jed. I’m late for an appointment and have to get going. But I’ll tell you what-you want to catch lunch one of these days? I’ll tell you all about my exciting life as a pensioner.”

I sort of laughed as I said the last line and I think it worked. He agreed to lunch but said he’d have to call me back about it. I knew from experience it was difficult to schedule a lunch ahead of time when you were working homicide. What would happen was that he would call on the morning he had a lunch free. That was the way it worked. We said we’d stay in touch and ended the call. It was nice to know that he apparently wasn’t carrying the same anger as Kiz Rider over my abrupt departure from our partnership and the department.

I called the bureau back and was put through to Nunez.

“You get a chance to make that call?”

“Yeah, but she wasn’t there. I talked to your old partner.”

“Rider?”

“No, his name was Edgar.”

“Oh, yeah. Jerry. How is he doing?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I’m sure you did when he just called you.”

“Excuse me?”

He had nailed me.

“You can skip the bullshit, Bosch. Edgar told me he felt obligated to call you and let you know someone was checking you out. I said that was fine with me. I asked him for your number so that way I would know I was dealing with the real Harry Bosch. He gave it to me and when I tried to call a couple minutes ago it was busy. I figure you were talking to Edgar, so I don’t appreciate your little dumb-guy dance.”

My embarrassment over being cornered turned to anger. Maybe it was the vodka in my stomach or the hammering reminder that I was an outsider now, but I was tired of dealing with this guy.

“Man, you are a great investigator,” I said into the phone. “A brilliant deductive mind. Tell me, do you ever use it on cases or do you reserve it only for busting the chops of people who are just trying to get something done in the world?”

“I have to be careful about who I give information to. You understand that.”

“Yeah, I understand that. I also understand why law enforcement works about as well as the freeways in this town.”

“Hey, Bosch, don’t go away mad. Just go away.”

I shook my head in frustration. I didn’t know if I had blown it or if I was never going to get anything from him in the first place.

“So that’s your little dance, huh? You call me on my act but you were acting the whole time, too. You never were going to give me the name, were you?”

He didn’t answer.

“It’s just a name, Nunez. No harm no foul.”

Still nothing from the agent.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. You’ve got my name and number. And I think you know what agent I am talking about. So go to her and let her decide. Give her my name and number. I don’t care what you think about me, Nunez. You owe it to your fellow agent to give it to her. Just like Edgar. He was obligated. So are you.”

That was it. That was my pitch. I waited in the silence, this time deciding not to speak again until Nunez did.

“Look, Bosch, I would tell her you were calling for her. I would have told her before I even talked to Edgar. But obligations only go so far. The agent you were asking about? She’s not around anymore.”

“What do you mean not around? Where is she?”

Nunez said nothing. I sat up straight, my elbow hitting the wheel, drawing a blast from the horn. Something was in my memory, something about a female agent in the news. I couldn’t quite get to it.

“Nunez, is she dead?”

“Bosch, I don’t like this. This talking on the phone with somebody I’ve never met. Why don’t you come in and maybe we can talk about this.”

“Maybe?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll talk. When can you come in?”

The dashboard clock said it was five after three. I looked at the front door of the retirement home.

“Four o’clock.”