“Uh, yes, I guess that is right. Are you saying it wasn’t Danny who called all of those times?”

“I’m not sure yet. But I talked to Danny in Hawaii and he said he stopped calling your daughter long before she was taken. He had a new girlfriend, you see. In Hawaii.”

This information was treated with a long pause. Finally, Bosch spoke into the void.

“Do you have any idea who it could have been that she was talking to, Mrs. Verloren?”

After another pause Muriel Verloren weakly offered an answer.

“Maybe one of her girlfriends.”

“It’s possible,” Bosch said. “Anybody else you can think of?”

“I don’t like this,” she responded quickly. “It’s like I’m learning things all over again.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Verloren. I will try not to hit you with these sorts of things unless it is necessary. But I am afraid this is necessary. Did you and your husband ever come to any conclusion about the pregnancy?”

“What do you mean? We didn’t know about it until after.”

“I understand that. What I mean is, did you think it came out of a hidden relationship or was it simply a mistake she made one day with, you know, someone she was not really in a relationship with?”

“You mean like a one-night stand? Is that what you are saying about my daughter?”

“No, ma’am, I am not saying anything about your daughter. I am simply asking questions. I do not want to upset you but I want to find the person who killed Rebecca. And I need to know all there is to know.”

“We could never explain it, Detective,” she responded coldly. “She was gone and we decided not to delve into it. We left everything to the police and we just tried to remember the daughter we knew and loved. You said you have a daughter. I hope you understand.”

“I think I do. Thank you for your answers. One last question-and there is no pressure on this-but would you be willing to talk to a newspaper reporter about your daughter and the case?”

“Why would I do that? I didn’t before. I don’t believe in putting it out there for the public.”

“I admire that. But this time I want you to do it because it might help us flush out the bird.”

“You mean it might make the person who did this come out from cover?”

“Exactly.”

“Then I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Verloren. I will let you know.”

ABEL PRATT CAME OUT of his office with his suit jacket on. He noticed Bosch sitting at his desk in the alcove, using two fingers to type up a report on his telephone conversation with Muriel Verloren. The finished reports on the phone interviews with Grace Tanaka and Daniel Kotchof were on the desk.

“Where’s Kiz?” Pratt asked.

“She’s working on the warrant at home. She can think better there.”

“I can’t think when I get home. I can only react. I have twin boys.”

“Good luck.”

“Yeah, I need it. I’m going that way now. I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.”

“Okay.”

But Pratt didn’t walk away. Bosch looked up from the typewriter at him. He thought maybe something was wrong. Maybe it was the typewriter.

“I found this on a desk on the other side,” Bosch said. “It didn’t look like it was being used by anybody.”

“It wasn’t. Most people use their computers now. You are definitely an old-school kind of guy, Harry.”

“I guess. Kiz usually does the reports, but I have some time to kill.”

“Working late?”

“I’ve got to go over to the Nickel.”

“ Fifth Street? What do you want over there?”

“Looking for our victim’s father.”

Pratt shook his head somberly.

“Another one of those. We’ve seen it before.”

Bosch nodded.

“Ripples,” he said.

“Yeah, ripples,” Pratt agreed.

Bosch was thinking about offering to walk out with Pratt, maybe have a conversation and get to know him better, but his cell phone started to chirp. He pulled it off his belt and saw the name Sam Weiss in the caller ID screen.

“I better take this.”

“All right, Harry. Be careful over there.”

“Thanks, Boss.”

He flipped open the phone.

“Detective Bosch,” he said.

“Detective?”

Bosch remembered he had left no information on his message to Weiss.

“Mr. Weiss, my name is Harry Bosch. I am a detective with the LAPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions about an investigation I am conducting.”

“I have all the time you need, Detective. Is this about my gun?”

The question caught Bosch off guard.

“Why would you ask that, sir?”

“Well, because I know it was used in a murder that was never solved. And that’s the only thing I can think of that the LAPD would want to ask me about.”

“Well, yes, sir, it’s about the gun. Can I talk to you about it?”

“If it means you are trying to find who killed that girl, then you can ask me anything you want.”

“Thank you. I guess the first thing I’d like is for you to tell me how and when you knew or were told that the weapon stolen from you was used in a homicide.”

“It was in the papers-the murder was-and I put two and two together. I called the detective assigned to my burglary and asked and got the answer I wish I hadn’t.”

“Why is that, Mr. Weiss?”

“Because I’ve had to live with it.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong, sir.”

“I know that, but it doesn’t make a person feel any better. I bought that gun because I was having trouble with a bunch of punks. I wanted protection. Then the gun I bought ended up being the instrument of death for that young girl. Don’t think I haven’t thought about changing history. I mean, what if I wasn’t so stubborn? What if I just pulled up stakes and moved instead of going and buying that damn thing? You see what I mean?”

“Yes, I see.”

“Now, that said, what else can I tell you, Detective?”

“I have just a few questions. Calling you was sort of a shot in the dark. I thought it might be easier than trying to find my way back through seventeen years of paperwork and department history. I have the initial report on the burglary and the investigator is listed as John McClellan. Do you remember him?”

“Sure, I remember him.”

“Did he ever clear the case?”

“Not as far as I know. At first John thought it might have been connected to the punks who had threatened me.”

“And was it?”

“John told me no. But I was never sure. The burglars really tore the place apart. It wasn’t like they were really looking for stuff to steal. They were just destroying things-my belongings. I walked in this place and, man, I could feel a lot of anger.”

“Why do you say burglars? Did the police think it was more than one?”

“John figured it had to be at least two or three. I was only gone an hour-went to the store. One guy couldn’t have done all that damage in that time.”

“The report lists the gun, a coin collection and some cash that was taken. Anything else come up missing after?”

“No, that was it. That was enough. At least I got the coins back, and that was the most valuable thing. It was my father’s collection from when he was a boy.”

“How did you get it back?”

“John McClellan. He brought them back to me a couple weeks later.”

“Did he say where he recovered them from?”

“He said a pawnshop in West Hollywood. And then, of course, we know what became of the gun. But that was not given back to me. I wouldn’t have taken it anyway.”

“I understand, sir. Did Detective McClellan ever tell you who he thought burglarized your home? Did he have any theories?”

“He thought it was just another set of punks, you know. Not the Chatsworth Eights.”

The mention of the Chatsworth Eights stirred something in Bosch, but he couldn’t place it.

“Mr. Weiss, act like I don’t know anything. Who were the Chatsworth Eights?”

“It was a gang out here in the Valley. They were all white kids. Skinheads. And back in nineteen eighty-eight they committed a number of crimes out here. They were hate crimes. That’s what they called them in the papers. Back then it was the new term for crimes motivated by race or religion.”