Angels Flight

’eighty-one. He then went to one of those bullshit private eye academies in the Valley. Got his state license in ’eighty-four. Apparently went to work for the Kincaid family after that. He worked his way up to the top, I guess.”
    “Why was he a washout?”
    “We don’t know yet. It’s Sunday night, Harry. Nobody’s over at the academy. We’ll pull the records tomorrow.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “You check the computer, see if he’s got a concealed license?”
    “Oh, yeah, we did. He’s got a license to carry. He’s strapped.”
    “With what? Tell me it’s a nine.”
    “Sorry, Harry. The ATF was closed tonight. We’ll get that tomorrow, too. All we know now is that he’s got a license to carry a concealed weapon.”
    “Okay, remember that, you two. Remember how good the shooter was on Angels Flight.”
    Rider and Edgar nodded.
    “So you think Richter’s doing Kincaid’s bidding?” Rider asked.
    “Probably. The rich don’t get themselves dirty like that. They call the shots, they don’t take ’em. Right now I like Richter.”
    He looked at his partners a moment. He felt that they were very close to breaking this thing open. They’d know in the next twenty-four hours. He hoped the city could wait that long.
    “What else?” he asked.
    “You get Sheehan all tucked in?” Rider asked.
    Bosch noted the tone of her voice.
    “Yeah, he’s tucked in. And, uh, look, I apologize about the press conference. Irving wanted you there but I probably could’ve gotten you out of it. I didn’t. I know it wasn’t a good move. I apologize.”
    “Okay, Harry,” Rider said.
    Edgar nodded.
    “Anything else before we go?”
    Edgar started shaking his head, then said, “Oh, yeah. Firearms called with an FYI. They took a look at Michael Harris’s gun this morning and it looks clean. They said it probably hasn’t been fired or cleaned in months, judging by the dust buildup in the barrel. So he’s clear.”
    “They going to go ahead with it anyway?”
    “That’s what they were calling for. They got an ASAP from Irving to do Sheehan’s gun tomorrow morning as soon as they get the slugs from the autopsy. They wanted to know if you wanted them to go ahead with Harris’s piece. I told them they might as well.”
    “Good. Anything else?”
    Edgar and Rider shook their heads.
    “Okay then,” Bosch said. “Let’s go see Judge Baker and then we’ll call it a day. I have a feeling tomorrow’s gonna be a long one.”

Chapter 29
    IT had started to rain. Bosch pulled into his carport and shut off his car. He was looking forward to a couple of beers to take the caffeine edge off his nerves. Judge Baker had served them coffee while she reviewed the search warrant petitions. She had reviewed the search warrants slowly and thoroughly and Bosch had drunk two full cups. In the end, though, she had signed every warrant and Bosch didn’t need the caffeine to feel jazzed. The next morning they would be “hunting and confronting,” as Kiz Rider called it – the put-up or shut-up phase of an investigation, the point where theories and hunches culminated in hard evidence and charges. Or they disintegrated.
    Bosch went in through the kitchen door. Besides the beer, he was already thinking about Kate Kincaid and how he would handle her the next day. He was looking forward to it the way a confident quarterback who has digested all the film and known strategies of the opposition looks forward to the next day’s game.
    The light was already on in the kitchen. Bosch put his briefcase on the counter and opened the refrigerator. There was no beer.
    “Shit,” he said.
    He knew there had been at least five bottles of Anchor Steam in the refrigerator. He turned and saw the five bottle caps on the counter. He started further into the house.
    “Hey, Frankie!” he called. “Don’t tell me you drank everything!”
    There was no reply. Bosch moved through the dining room and then the living room. The place appeared as he had left it earlier that evening, as if Sheehan had not made himself at home. He checked the rear deck through the glass doors. The light was off outside and he saw no sign of his former partner. He walked down the hallway and leaned close to the closed door of the guest room. He heard nothing. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet eleven.
    “Frankie?” he whispered.
    No reply, only the sound of the rain on the roof. He knocked lightly on the door.
    “Frankie?” he said louder.
    Still nothing. Bosch