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all the newspaper coverage this morning. I’m not seeing what you’re seeing. The guy’s a criminal. You know him because he’s a criminal. So right now all I’m promising to do—the one thing—is look through all of this and render an opinion. That’s it.”
    Bosch held the unwieldy file up so Haller could see it again.
    “If I don’t find something missing or something that flares on my radar, then I’m giving it all back and that’ll be it.
Comprende, hermano?
”
    “
Comprende
. You know, it must be hard to be like that.”
    “Like what?”
    “Not believing in rehabilitation and redemption, that people can change. With you it’s ‘once a con always a con.’”
    Bosch ignored the accusation.
    “So the
Times
says your client’s got no alibi. What are you going to do about that?”
    “He has an alibi. He was in his studio painting. We just can’t prove it—yet. But we will. They say he’s got no alibi but they’ve got no motive. He didn’t know this woman, had never even seen her or been in that neighborhood, let alone her house. It’s crazy to think he would do this. They tried to connect him somehow to the husband when he worked down in Lynwood—some kind of a gang revenge scheme, but it’s not there. Da’Quan was a Crip and the husband worked Bloods. There is no motive because he didn’t do it.”
    “They don’t need motive. With a sex crime the sex is motive enough. What are you going to do about the DNA?”
    “I’m going to challenge it.”
    “I’m not talking about O.J. bullshit. Is there evidence of mishandling of the sample or test failure?”
    “Not yet.”
    “‘Not yet’—what’s that mean?”
    “I petitioned the judge to allow for independent testing. The D.A. objected, saying there wasn’t enough material recovered, but that was bullshit and the judge agreed. I have an independent lab analyzing now.”
    “When will you hear something?”
    “The court fight took two months. I just got the material to them and am hoping to hear something any day. At least they’re faster than the Sheriff’s lab.”
    Bosch was unimpressed. He assumed the analysis would conclude what the Sheriff’s analysis concluded—that the DNA belonged to Da’Quan Foster. The next step would be to go after the handlers of the evidence. It was the kind of tactic defense attorneys took all the time. If the evidence is against you, then taint the evidence any way you can.
    “So aside from that, what’s your theory?” he asked. “How’d your client’s DNA end up in the victim?”
    Haller shook his head.
    “I don’t think it was. Even if my lab says it’s his DNA, I still won’t believe he did it. He was set up.”
    Now Bosch shook his head.
    “Jesus,” he said. “You’ve been around the block more times than most of the lawyers I know. How can you think this?”
    Haller looked at Bosch and held his eyes.
    “Maybe because I have been around the block a few times,” he said. “You been at it as long as me, you get to know who’s lying to you. I got nothing else, Harry, but I have my gut and it tells me something’s wrong here. There’s a setup, there’s a fix, there’s something somewhere, and this guy didn’t do this. Why don’t you go talk to him and see what your gut tells you?”
    “Not yet,” Bosch said. “Let me read the book. I want to know everything there is to know about the investigation before I talk to him. If I talk to him.”
    Haller nodded and they parted ways, Bosch promising to keep in touch. Each man drove off to a different parking lot exit. While waiting for traffic on Third to open up for him, Bosch looked up at Anthony Quinn, his arms stretched out as if to show he had nothing.
    “You and me both,” Bosch said.
    He pulled out on Third and then took a right on Broadway, driving through the civic center and into Chinatown. He found street parking and went into Chinese Friends for an early lunch. The place was empty. Carrying the file Haller had passed