A Darkness More Than Night

empty.
    “Terry, come on, man, I’m in the middle of a trial. I’m on the stand, I’ve been chasing down an AWOL wit. I mean I stopped thinking about your investigation the minute I got up from the table at Cupid’s. What exactly do you want from me?”
    “Nothing, Harry. I don’t want anything from you that you don’t have. I just thought it might be worth a shot, is all. I’m working on this thing and scratching around for anything. I thought maybe… don’t worry about it.”
    “You’re a weird guy, McCaleb. I’m remembering that now. The way you used to stare at crime scene photos. You want another beer?”
    “Yeah, why not?”
    Bosch pushed off the railing and reached over for his bottle and then McCaleb’s. It was still at least a third full. He put it back down.
    “Well, finish that.”
    He went into the house and got two more beers out of the refrigerator. This time McCaleb was standing in the living room when he came back from the kitchen. He handed Bosch his empty bottle and Bosch wondered for a moment if he had finished it or poured the beer over the side of the deck. He took the empty into the kitchen and when he came back McCaleb was standing at the stereo studying a CD case.
    “This what’s playing?” he asked. “Art Pepper meets the Rhythm Section?”
    Bosch stepped over.
    “Yeah. Art Pepper and Miles’s side men. Red Garland on piano, Paul Chambers on bass, Philly Joe Jones on drums. Recorded here in L.A., January 19, 1957. One day. The cork in the neck of Pepper’s sax was supposedly cracked but it didn’t matter. He had one shot with these guys. He made the most of it. One day, one shot, one classic. That’s the way to do it.”
    “These guys were in Miles Davis’s band?”
    “At the time.”
    McCaleb nodded. Bosch leaned close to look at the CD cover in McCaleb’s hands.
    “Yeah, Art Pepper,” he said. “When I was growing up I never knew who my father was. My mother, she used to have a lot of this guy’s records. She hung out at some of the jazz clubs where he’d play. Handsome devil, Art was. For a hype. Just look at that picture. Too cool to fool. I made up this whole story about how he was my old man and he wasn’t around ’cause he was always on the road and making records. Almost got to the point I believed it. Later on – I mean years later – I read a book about him. It said he was junk sick when they took that picture. He puked as soon as it was over and went back to bed.”
    McCaleb studied the photograph on the CD. A handsome man leaning against a tree, his sax cradled in his right arm.
    “Well, he could play,” McCaleb said.
    “Yeah, he could,” Bosch agreed. “Genius with a needle in his arm.”
    Bosch stepped over and turned the volume up slightly. The song was “Straight Life,” Pepper’s signature composition.
    “Do you believe that?” McCaleb asked.
    “What, that he was a genius? Yeah, he was with the sax.”
    “No, I mean do you think that every genius – musician, artist, even a detective – has a fatal flaw like that? The needle in the arm.”
    “I think everybody’s got a fatal flaw, whether they’re a genius or not.”
    Bosch turned it up louder. McCaleb put his beer down on top of one of the floor speakers. Bosch picked it up and handed it back. He used his palm to wipe the wet ring off the wood surface. McCaleb turned the music down.
    “Come on, Harry, give me something.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I made the journey up here. Give me something on Gunn. I know you don’t care about him – the wheel turned and he didn’t walk away. But I don’t like the way this one looked. This guy – whoever he is – is still out there. And he’s going to do this again. I can tell.”
    Bosch shook his shoulders like he still didn’t care.
    “All right, here’s something. It’s thin but it might be worth a try. When he was in the tank the night before he got put down and I checked in on him, I also talked with the Metro guys who brought him in on the DUI. They said they asked him where he’d been drinking and he said he’d come out of a place called Nat’s. It’s on the Boulevard about a block from Musso’s and on the south side.”
    “Okay, I can find it,” McCaleb said, a what-about-it tone in his voice. “What’s the connection?”
    “Well, see, Nat’s was the same place he’d been drinking that night six years ago that I first made his acquaintance. It’s where he picked up that woman, the one he