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got out of the life. That’s why I know.”
    “Know what?”
    “That he didn’t do this.”
    “I read some of the stories online. What about the rape arrest?”
    “It was bullshit. I’ll show you the file. They brought him and about twenty other guys in. Let him go in less than a day.”
    “Where are you in discovery? Did you get the murder book yet?”
    “I got it. But if you are getting interested in this, I think you need to talk to my client. You read the book, and you’re going to get the other side’s case. You’re not going to—”
    “I don’t care. It’s all about the book. It begins and ends with the book. When can I get a copy?”
    “I can get it put together by tomorrow.”
    “Good. Call me and I’ll come get it.”
    “So then you’re in?”
    “Just call me when you have the book ready.”
    Bosch clicked off the call. He thought about the conversation and what he was feeling after reading the newspaper stories. He had made no commitment yet. He had crossed no line. But he couldn’t deny that he was getting close to the line. He also could not deny the growing feeling that he was about to get back on the mission.

5
     
    B osch and Skinner met at the Factory Kitchen off Alameda. It was a trendy Italian place in the Arts District. It was her style and her choice. His suggestions had been shot down.
    It was crowded and voices echoed and clattered off the old factory’s brick walls. It was definitely the wrong kind of place to discuss the dissolution of a relationship but that was what they did.
    Over a shared plate of tagliatelle with duck ragù, Skinner told Bosch that their time together as a couple was at an end. She was a reporter who had spent almost thirty years covering police and politics. She had a direct, sometimes abrupt delivery when discussing any subject, including romance and the fulfillment of her needs. She told Bosch he had changed. He was too consumed by the loss of his career and finding his place as a man without a badge to keep the relationship on the front burner.
    “I think I need to step away and let you work things out, Harry,” she said.
    Bosch nodded. He was not surprised by her pronouncement or the reasoning behind it. Somehow he knew that the relationship—not even a year old—could not go the distance. It had been born in the excitement and energy of a case he was working and a political scandal she was writing about. The nexus of the romance was those two things. When they were gone, they both had to wonder what they still had.
    She reached over and touched his cheek in a wistful way.
    “I’m only a few years behind you,” she said. “It will happen to me.”
    “No, you’ll be fine,” Bosch said. “Your job is telling stories. Stories will always need to be told.”
    After dinner they hugged at the valet stand while waiting for their cars. They promised to stay in touch but they both knew that would not happen.

6
     
    B osch met Haller at 11 a.m. Monday in a downtown parking lot beneath the outstretched hands of Anthony Quinn painted on the side of a building on Third. Bosch pulled his old Cherokee up close to the rear passenger door of the Lincoln and the window came down. Because of a bad angle and the tinting on the Lincoln’s windows Bosch could not see who was driving.
    From the backseat Haller handed a thick, rubber-banded file out the window to him. Bosch had somehow thought it would be contained in a blue binder the way murder books were in the detective bureau. Seeing the file full of photocopies was a glaring reminder that what he was about to do wasn’t remotely close to working a case for the police department. He was going far out on his own here.
    “What will you do now?” Haller asked.
    “What do you think?” Bosch replied. “I’ll go off somewhere and read through all of this.”
    “I know that, but what are you looking for?”
    “I’m looking for the things that are missing. Look, I don’t want to get your hopes up. I read