“Yes, I do.”

“Anyway, I thought about him when I got in bed after I got home. That was when I burned my hand. I fell asleep with the cigarette. But before I woke up I had this dream. I mean, I think it was a dream. Maybe like a daydream, like I was still kind of awake. And in it, whatever it was, the coyote was there again. But it was with me. And we were in the canyon or on a hill or something and I wasn’t really sure.”

He held up his hand.

“And then I felt the fire.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“Well, interpretation of dreams is not something I do often. Frankly, I’m not sure of its value. The real value I think I see in what you just told me was the willingness to tell me. It shows me a one-eighty-degree turn in your approach to these sessions. For what it’s worth, I think it’s clear you identify with the coyote. Perhaps, there are not many policemen like you left and you feel the same threat to your existence or your mission. I don’t really know. But look at your own words. You called them sad and threatening at the same time. Could that be you also?”

He drank from his cup before answering.

“I’ve been sad before. But I’ve found comfort in it.”

They sat in silence for a while, digesting what had been said. She looked at her watch.

“We still have some time. Is there anything else you want to talk about? Maybe something related to this story?”

He contemplated the question for a while and took out a cigarette.

“How much time do we have?”

“As long as you want. Don’t worry about the time. I want to do this.”

“You’ve talked about my mission. You told me to think about my mission. And you said the word again just a minute ago.”

“Yes.”

He hesitated.

“What I say here is protected, right?”

She furrowed her brow.

“I’m not talking about anything illegal. What I mean is, whatever I tell you in here, you’re not going to tell people, right? It won’t get back to Irving.”

“No. What you tell me stays right here. That’s an absolute. I told you, I make a single, narrowly focused recommendation for or against return to duty that I give to Assistant Chief Irving. That’s it.”

He nodded, hesitated again and then made his decision. He would tell her.

“Well, you were talking about my mission and your mission and so on and, well, I think I’ve had a mission for a long time. Only I didn’t know it, or I mean…I didn’t accept it. I didn’t acknowledge it. I don’t know how to explain it right. Maybe I was afraid or something. I put it off. For a lot of years. Anyway, what I’m telling you is that I’ve accepted it now.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you. Harry, you have to come out and tell me what you’re talking about.”

He looked down at the gray rug in front of him. He spoke to it because he didn’t know how to say it to her face.

“I’m an orphan…I never knew my father and my mother was murdered in Hollywood when I was a kid. Nobody…there never was any arrest made.”

“You’re looking for her killer, aren’t you?”

He looked up at her and nodded.

“That’s my mission right now.”

She showed no shock on her face, which in turn surprised him. It was as if she expected him to say what he had just said.

“Tell me about it.”

BOSCH SAT AT his dining room table with his notebook out and the newspaper clips that Keisha Russell had had a Times intern gather for him sitting in front of him in two separate stacks. One stack for Conklin stories and one for Mittel stories. There was a bottle of Henry’s on the table and through the evening he had been nursing it like cough syrup. The one beer was all he would allow himself. The ashtray, however, was loaded and there was a pall of blue smoke around the table. He had placed no limit on cigarettes. Hinojos had said nothing about smoking.

She’d had plenty to say about his mission, though. She’d flatly counseled him to stop until he was better emotionally prepared to face what he might find. He told her that he was too far down the road to stop. Then she said something that he kept thinking about as he drove home and it intruded even now.

“You better think about this and make sure it’s what you want,” she said. “Subconsciously or not, you may have been working toward this all your life. It could be the reason you are who you are. A policeman, a homicide investigator. Resolving your mother’s death could also resolve your need to be a policeman. It could take your drive, your mission, away from you. You have to be prepared for that or you should turn back.”

Bosch considered what she had said to be true. He knew that all his life it had been there. What had happened to his mother had helped define everything he did after. And it was always there in the dark recesses of his mind. A promise to find out. A promise to avenge. It was never anything that had been spoken aloud or even thought about with much focus. For to have done that was to plan and this was no part of a grand agenda. Still, he was crowded with the feeling that what he was doing was inevitable, something scheduled by an unseen hand a long time ago.

His mind put Hinojos aside and focused on a memory. He was under the surface of the water, eyes open and looking up toward the light above the pool. Then, the light was eclipsed by a figure standing above, the image murky, a dark angel hovering above. Bosch kicked off the bottom and moved toward the figure.

Bosch picked up the bottle of beer and finished it in one pull. He tried to concentrate again on the newspaper clips in front of him.

He had initially been surprised at how many stories there were about Arno Conklin prior to his ascendance to the throne of the district attorney’s office. But as he started to read through them he saw most of the stories were mundane dispatches from trials in which Conklin was the prosecuting attorney. Still, Bosch got somewhat of a feel for the man through the cases he tried and his style as a prosecutor. It was clear that his star rose both in the office and the public’s eyes with a series of highly publicized cases.

The stories were in chronological order and the first dealt with the successful prosecution in 1953 of a woman who poisoned both her parents and then stored their bodies in trunks in the garage until neighbors complained about the smell to the police a month later. Conklin was quoted at length in several articles on the case. One time he was described as the “dashing deputy district attorney.” The case was one of the early forerunners of the insanity defense. The woman claimed diminished capacity. But judging by the number of articles, there was a public furor over the case and the jury only took a half hour to convict. The defendant received the death penalty and Conklin’s place in the public arena as a champion of public safety, a seeker of justice, was secured. There was a photo of him talking to the reporters after the verdict. The paper’s earlier description of him had him down perfectly. He was a dashing man. He wore a dark three-piece suit, had short blond hair and was clean-shaven. He was lean and tall and had the ruddy, All-American look that actors pay surgeons thousands for. Arno was a star in his own right.

There were more stories about more murder cases in the clips after that first one. Conklin won every one of them. And he always asked for-and got-the death penalty. Bosch noticed that in the stories from the later fifties, he had been elevated in title to senior deputy district attorney and then by the end of the decade to assistant, one of the top jobs in the office. It was a meteoric rise to have taken place in only a decade.

There was one report on a press conference in which DA John Charles Stock announced he was placing Conklin in charge of the Special Investigations Unit and charging him with cleaning up the myriad vice problems that threatened the social fabric of Los Angeles County.