Harry Bosch raised his briefcase like a shield and used it to push his way through the crowd of reporters and cameras gathered outside the doors of the courtroom.

“Let me through, please, let me through.”

Most of them didn’t move until he used the briefcase to lever them out of the way. They were desperately crowding in and reaching tape recorders and cameras toward the center of the human knot where the defense lawyer was holding court.

Bosch finally made it to the door, where a sheriff’s deputy was pressed against the handle. He recognized Bosch and stepped sideways so he could open the door.

“You know,” Bosch said to the deputy, “this is going to happen every day. This guy has more to say outside court than inside. You might want to think about setting up some rules so people can get in and out.”

As Bosch went through the door, he heard the deputy tell him to talk to the judge about it.

Bosch walked down the center aisle and then through the gate to the prosecution table. He was the first to arrive. He pulled the third chair out and sat down. He opened his briefcase on the table, took out the heavy blue binder and put it to the side. He then closed and snapped the briefcase locks and put it down on the floor next to his chair.

Bosch was ready. He leaned forward and folded his arms on top of the binder. The courtroom was still, almost empty except for the judge’s clerk and a court reporter who were getting ready for the day. Bosch liked these times. The quiet before the storm. And he knew without a doubt that a storm was surely coming. He nodded to himself. He was ready, ready to dance with the devil once more. He realized that his mission in life was all about moments like these. Moments that should be savored and remembered but that always caused a tight fisting of his guts.

There was a loud metallic clacking sound and the door to the side holding cell opened. Two deputies led a man through the door. He was young and still tanned somehow despite almost three months in lockup. He wore a suit that would easily take the weekly paychecks of the men on either side of him. His hands were cuffed at his sides to a waist chain which looked incongruous with the perfect blue suit. In one hand he clasped an artist’s sketch pad. The other held a black felt-tip pen, the only kind of writing instrument allowed in lockdown.

The man was led to the defense table and positioned in front of the middle seat. He smiled and looked forward as the cuffs and the chain were removed. A deputy put a hand on the man’s shoulder and pushed him down into the seat. The deputies then moved back and took positions in chairs to the man’s rear.

The man immediately leaned forward and opened the sketch pad and went to work with his pen. Bosch watched. He could hear the point of the pen scratching furiously on the paper.

“They don’t allow me a charcoal, Bosch. Do you believe that? What threat could a piece of charcoal possibly be?”

He hadn’t looked at Bosch as he said it. Bosch didn’t reply.

“It’s the little things like that that bother me the most,” the man said.

“Better get used to it,” Bosch said.

The man laughed but still did not look at Bosch.

“You know, somehow I knew that was exactly what you were going to say.”

Bosch was quiet.

“You see, you are so predictable Bosch. All of you are.”

The rear courtroom door opened and Bosch turned his eyes away from the defendant. The attorneys were coming in now. They were about to start.

By the time McCaleb got to the Farmers’ Market he was thirty minutes late for the meeting with Jaye Winston. He and Buddy had made the crossing in an hour and a half and McCaleb had called the sheriff’s detective after they tied up at Cabrillo Marina. They arranged to meet but then he found the battery in the Cherokee dead because the car hadn’t been used in two weeks. He had to get Buddy to give him a jump from his old Taurus and that had taken up the time.

He walked into Dupar’s, the corner restaurant in the market, but didn’t see Winston at any of the tables or the counter. He hoped she hadn’t come and gone. He chose an unoccupied booth that afforded the most privacy and sat down. He didn’t need to look at a menu. They had chosen the Farmer’s Market to meet because it was near Edward Gunn’s apartment and because McCaleb wanted to eat breakfast at Dupar’s. He had told Winston that more than anything else about Los Angeles, he missed the pancakes at Dupar’s. Often when he and Graciela and the children made their once-a-month trip overtown to buy clothing and supplies not available on Catalina, they ate a meal at Dupar’s. It didn’t matter whether it was breakfast, lunch or dinner, McCaleb always ordered pancakes. Raymond did, too. But he was boysenberry while McCaleb was traditional maple.

McCaleb told the waitress he was waiting for another party but ordered a large orange juice and a glass of water. After she brought the two glasses he opened his leather bag and took out the plastic pill box. He kept a week’s supply of his pills on the boat and another couple days’ worth in the glove box of the Cherokee. He’d prepared the box after docking. Alternating gulps of orange juice and water, he downed the twenty-seven pills that made up his morning dosage. He knew their names by their shapes and colors and tastes; Prilosec, Imuran, digoxin. As he methodically went through the lineup he noticed a woman in a nearby booth watching, her eyebrows arched in wonder.

He would never get rid of the pills. They were as certain for him as the proverbial death and taxes. Over the years some would be changed, some subtracted and new ones added, but he knew he would be swallowing pills and washing away their awful tastes with orange juice for the rest of his life.

“I see you ordered without me.”

He looked up from the last three cyclosporine pills he was about to take as Jaye Winston slid into the opposite side of the booth.

“Sorry, I’m so late. Traffic on the 10 was a complete bitch.”

“It’s all right. I was late, too. Dead battery.”

“How many of those you take now?”

“Fifty-four a day.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I had to turn a hallway closet into a medicine cabinet. The whole thing.”

“Well, at least you’re still here.”

She smiled and McCaleb nodded. The waitress came to the table with a menu for Winston but she said they had better order.

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

McCaleb ordered a large stack with melted butter. He told the waitress they would share one order of well-done bacon.

“Coffee?” asked the waitress. She looked as though this might have been the one-millionth pancake order she had taken.

“Yes, please,” said Winston. “Black.”

McCaleb said he was fine with the orange juice.

When they were alone McCaleb looked across the table at Winston.

“So, you get ahold of the manager?”

“He’s going to meet us at ten-thirty. The place is still vacant but it has been cleaned. After we released it, the vic’s sister came up and went through his things, took what she wanted.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of something like that.”

“The manager didn’t think it was very much – the guy didn’t have much.”

“What about the owl?”

“He didn’t remember the owl. Frankly, I didn’t either until you mentioned it this morning.”

“It’s just a hunch. I’d like to take a look at it.”

“Well, we’ll see if it’s there. What else do you want to do? I hope you didn’t come all the way across just to look at the guy’s apartment.”

“I was thinking about checking out the sister. And maybe Harry Bosch, too.”

Winston was silent but he could tell by her demeanor she was waiting for an explanation.