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decades earlier at Shelly Manne’s and Donte’s and some of the other long-gone Hollywood jazz clubs spawned by the West Coast sound. McKinzie had told me to listen and study the discs. They were some of Pepper’s last recordings. After years spent in jails and prisons because of his addictions, the artist was making up for lost time. Even in his work as a sideman. That relentlessness. He never stopped it until his heart stopped. There was a kind of integrity in that and the music that my friend admired. He gave me the discs and told me never to stop making up for lost time.
    Soon the song ended and Kiz turned to me.
    “Who was that?”
    “Art Pepper, Lee Konitz.”
    “White guys?”
    I nodded.
    “Damn. That was good.”
    I nodded again.
    “So what’s under the tablecloth, Harry?”
    I shrugged.
    “First time you’ve come around in eight months, I suppose you know.”
    She nodded.
    “Yeah.”
    “Let me guess. Alexander Taylor’s tight with the chief or the mayor or both and he called to check me out.”
    She nodded. I had gotten it right.
    “And the chief knew you and I were close at one time, so…”
    At one time. She seemed to stumble while saying that part.
    “Anyhow, he sent me out to tell you that you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
    She sat down on the chair opposite the couch and looked out across the deck. I could tell she wasn’t interested in what was out there. She just didn’t want to look at me.
    “So this is what you gave up homicide for, to run errands for the chief.”
    She looked sharply at me and I saw the injury in her eyes. But I didn’t regret what I said. I was just as angry with her as she was with me.
    “It’s easy for you to say that, Harry. You’ve already been through the war.”
    “The war never ends, Kiz.”
    I almost smiled at the coincidence of the song that was now playing while Rider was delivering her message. The piece was “High Jingo,” with Pepper still accompanying Konitz. Pepper would be dead six months after laying down the track. The coincidence was that when I was young in the department, “high jingo” was a way old-guard detectives would describe a case that had taken on unusual interest from the sixth floor or carried other unseen political or bureaucratic dangers. When a case had high jingo on it, you had to be careful. You were in murky water. You had to watch your back because nobody else was watching it for you.
    I got up and went to the window. The sun was reflecting off a billion particles that hung in the air. It was orange and pink and looked beautiful. It didn’t seem like it could be poison.
    “So what’s the word from the chief-lay off it, Bosch? You’re a citizen now. Leave it to the professionals?”
    “More or less.”
    “The case is gathering dust, Kiz. Why does he care that I’m poking around when nobody in his own department does? Is he afraid I’ll embarrass him or something by closing it?”
    “Who says it’s gathering dust?”
    I turned around and looked at her.
    “Come on, don’t give me the due diligence dance. I know how that goes. A signature every six months on the log, ‘Uh yup, nothing new here.’ I mean, don’t you care about this, Kiz? You knew Angella Benton. Don’t you want to see this thing cleared?”
    “Of course I do. Don’t think for one moment that I want anything less. But things are happening, Harry. I was sent out here as a courtesy to you. Don’t get involved. You might wander into something you shouldn’t. You might hurt rather than help.”
    I sat back down and looked at her for a long moment as I tried to read between the lines. I wasn’t convinced.
    “If it is actively being worked, who is working it?”
    She shook her head.
    “I can’t tell you that. I can only tell you to leave it alone.”
    “Look, Kiz, this is me. Whatever anger you have because I pulled the pin shouldn’t stop you -”
    “From what? Doing what I am supposed to do? Following orders? Harry, you no longer have