City Of Bones

of canals with arched bridges and a town center of Italian architecture. It would be a place emphasizing cultural and artistic learning. And he would call it Venice of America.
    But like most of the dreamers who come to Los Angeles his vision was not uniformly shared or realized. Most financiers and investigators were cynical and passed on the opportunity to build Venice, putting their money into projects of less grand design. Venice of America was dubbed “Kinney’s Folly.”
    But a century later many of the canals and the arched bridges reflected in their waters remained while the financiers and doomsayers and their projects were long swept away by time. Bosch liked the idea of Kinney’s Folly outlasting them all.
    Bosch had not been to the canals in many years, though for a short period in his life after returning from Vietnam he had lived there in a bungalow with three other men he knew from overseas. In the years since, many of the bungalows had been erased and modern two- and three-story homes costing a million dollars or more had replaced them.
    Julia Brasher lived in a house at the corner of the Howland and Eastern canals. Bosch expected it to be one of the new structures. He guessed she probably used her law-firm money to buy it or even build it. But as he came to the address he saw that he was wrong. Her house was a small bungalow made of white clapboard with an open front porch overlooking the joining of the two canals.
    Bosch saw lights on behind the windows of her house. It was late but not that late. If she worked the three-to-eleven shift, then it was unlikely she was used to going to bed before two.
    He stepped up onto the porch but hesitated before knocking on the door. Until the doubts of the last hour had crept in, he had gotten only good feelings about Brasher and their fledgling relationship. He knew he now had to be careful. There could be nothing wrong and yet he could spoil everything if he misstepped here.
    Finally, he raised his arm and knocked. Brasher answered right away.
    “I was wondering if you were going to knock or stand out there all night.”
    “You knew I was standing here?”
    “The porch is old. It creaks. I heard it.”
    “Well, I got here and then figured it was too late. I should have called first.”
    “Just come in. Is anything wrong?”
    Bosch came in and looked around. He didn’t answer the question.
    The living room had an unmistakable beach flavor to it, right down to the bamboo-and-rattan furniture and the surfboard leaning in one corner. The only deviation was her equipment belt and holster hanging on a wall rack near the door. It was a rookie mistake leaving it out like that, but Bosch assumed she was proud of her new career choice and wanted to remind friends outside the cop world of it.
    “Sit down,” she said. “I have some wine open. Would you like a glass?”
    Bosch thought a moment about whether mixing wine with the beer he’d had an hour earlier would lead to a headache the next day when he knew he’d have to be focused.
    “It’s red.”
    “Uh, I’ll take just a little bit.”
    “Got to be sharp tomorrow, huh?”
    “I guess.”
    She went into the kitchen while he sat down on the couch. He looked around the room and now saw a mounted fish with a long sharp point hanging over the white brick fireplace. The fish was a brilliant blue shading to black with a white and yellow underside. Mounted fish didn’t bother him the way the heads of mounted game did but he still didn’t like the eye of the fish always watching.
    “You catch this thing?” he called out.
    “Yeah. Off Cabo. Took me three and a half hours to bring it in.”
    She then appeared with two glasses of wine.
    “On fifty-pound test line,” she said. “That was a workout.”
    “What is it?”
    “Black marlin.”
    She toasted the fish with her glass and then toasted Bosch.
    “Hold fast.”
    Bosch looked at her.
    “That’s my new toast,” she said. “Hold fast. It seems to cover everything.”
    She sat down on the chair closest to Bosch. Behind her was the surfboard. It was white with a rainbow design in a border running along the edges. It was a short board.
    “So you surf the wild waves, too.”
    She glanced back at the board and then at Bosch and smiled.
    “I try to. Picked it up in Hawaii.”
    “You know John Burrows?”
    She shook her head.
    “Lot of surfers in Hawaii. What beach does he surf?”
    “No, I mean here. He’s a cop. He works Homicide out of Pacific