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question.
    “Were they all cut up?”
    “Hard to tell.”
    Bosch broke from his spot with Brasher and walked to the back of the truck. He looked through the open door at the back and saw three men wearing aprons working in the truck. Or appearing to work. They did not notice Bosch watching. Two of the men were making sandwiches and filling orders. The man in the middle, the one who had asked the cadet questions, was moving his arms on the prep counter below the order window. He wasn’t making anything, but from outside the truck it would appear he was creating a sandwich. As Bosch watched, he saw the man to the right slice a sandwich in half, put it on a paper plate and slide it to the man in the middle. The middle man then held it out through the window to the cadet who ordered it.
    Bosch noticed that while the two real sandwich makers wore jeans and T-shirts beneath their aprons, the man in the middle had on cuffed slacks and a shirt with a button-down collar. Protruding from the back pocket of his pants was a notebook. The long, thin kind that Bosch knew reporters used.
    Bosch stuck his head in the door and looked around. On a shelf next to the doorway he saw a sport jacket rolled into a ball. He grabbed it and stepped back away from the door. He went through the pockets of the jacket and found an LAPD-issued press pass on a neck chain. It had a picture of the middle sandwich maker on it. His name was Victor Frizbe and he worked at the New Times.
    Holding the jacket to the side of the door, Bosch rapped on the outside of the truck, and when all three men turned to look he signaled Frizbe over. The reporter pointed to his chest with a Who, me? look and Bosch nodded. Frizbe came to the door and bent down.
    “Yes?”
    Bosch reached up and grabbed him by the top bib on the apron and jerked him out of the truck. Frizbe landed on his feet but had to run several steps to stop from falling. As he turned around to protest, Bosch hit him in the chest with the balled-up jacket.
    Two patrol officers-they always ate first-were dumping paper plates into a nearby trash can. Bosch signaled them over.
    “Take him back to the perimeter. If you see him crossing it again, arrest him.”
    Each officer took Frizbe by an arm and started marching him down the street to the barricades. Frizbe started protesting, his face growing as red as a Coke can, but the patrol officers ignored everything about him but his arms and marched him toward his humiliation in front of the other reporters. Bosch watched for a moment and then took the press card out of his back pocket and dropped it in the trash can.
    He rejoined Brasher in line. Now they were just two cadets away from being served.
    “What was that all about?” Brasher asked.
    “Health-code violation. Didn’t wash his hands.”
    She started laughing.
    “I’m serious. The law’s the law as far as I’m concerned.”
    “God, I hope I get my sandwich before you see a roach or something and close the whole thing down.”
    “Don’t worry, I think I just got rid of the roach.”
    Ten minutes later, after Bosch lectured the truck owner about smuggling the media into the crime scene, they took their sandwiches and drinks to one of the picnic tables Special Services had set up on the circle. It was a table that had been reserved for the investigative team, but Bosch didn’t mind allowing Brasher to sit there. Edgar was there along with Kohl and one of the diggers from her crew. Bosch introduced Brasher to those who didn’t know her and mentioned she had taken the initial call on the case and helped him the night before.
    “So where’s the boss?” Bosch asked Kohl.
    “Oh, she already ate. I think she went off to tape an interview with herself or something.”
    Bosch smiled and nodded.
    “I think I’m going to get seconds,” Edgar said as he climbed over the bench and left with his plate.
    Bosch bit into his BLT and savored its taste. He was starved. He wasn’t planning to do anything but