City Of Bones

at the end.
    Hinojos went off and Bosch continued his trek to the grave. He thought he was alone now. He grabbed a handful of dirt from the fill mound and walked over and looked down. A whole bouquet and several single flowers had been dropped on top of the casket. Bosch thought about holding Julia in his bed just two nights before. He wished he had seen what was coming. He wished he had been able to take the hints and put them into a clear picture of what she was doing and where she was going.
    Slowly, he raised his hand out and let the dirt slide through his fingers.
    “City of bones,” he whispered.
    He watched the dirt fall into the grave like dreams disappearing.
    “I assume you knew her.”
    Bosch quickly turned. It was her father. Smiling sadly. They were the only two left in the cemetery. Bosch nodded.
    “Just recently. I got to know her. I’m sorry for your loss.”
    “Frederick Brasher.”
    He put out his hand. Bosch started to take it but then held up.
    “My hand’s dirty.”
    “Don’t worry. So is mine.”
    They shook hands.
    “Harry Bosch.”
    Brasher’s hand stopped its shaking movement for a moment as the name registered.
    “The detective,” he said. “You were there yesterday.”
    “Yes. I tried… I did what I could to help her. I…”
    He stopped. He didn’t know what to say.
    “I’m sure you did. It must’ve been an awful thing to be there.”
    Bosch nodded. A wave of guilt passed through him like an X-ray lighting his bones. He had left her there, thinking she would be all right. Somehow it hurt almost as bad as the fact she had died.
    “What I don’t understand is how it happened,” Brasher said. “A mistake like that, how could it kill her? And then the District Attorney’s Office today saying this man Stokes would not face any charge in the shooting. I’m a lawyer but I just don’t understand. They are letting him go.”
    Bosch studied the older man, saw the misery in his eyes.
    “I’m sorry, sir. I wish I could tell you. I have the same questions as you.”
    Brasher nodded and looked into the grave.
    “I’m going now,” he said after a long moment. “Thank you for coming, Detective Bosch.”
    Bosch nodded. They shook hands again and Brasher started to walk away.
    “Sir?” Bosch asked.
    Brasher turned back.
    “Do you know when someone from the family will be going to her house?”
    “Actually, I was given her keys today. I was going to go now. Take a look at things. Try to get a sense of her, I guess. In recent years we hadn’t…”
    He didn’t finish. Bosch stepped closer to him.
    “There’s something that she had. A picture in a frame. If it’s not… if it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep it.”
    Brasher nodded.
    “Why don’t you come now? Meet me there. Show me this picture.”
    Bosch looked at his watch. Lt. Billets had scheduled a one-thirty meeting to discuss the status of the case. He probably had just enough time to make it to Venice and back to the station. There would be no time for lunch but he couldn’t see himself eating anything anyway.
    “Okay, I will.”
    They parted and headed toward their cars. On the way Bosch stopped on the grass where the salute had been fired. Combing the grass with his foot, he looked until he saw the glint of brass and bent down to pick up one of the ejected rifle shells. He held it on his palm and looked at it for a few moments, then closed his hand and dropped it into his coat pocket. He had picked up a shell from every cop funeral he had ever attended. He had a jar full of them.
    He turned and walked out of the cemetery.

Chapter 35
    JERRY Edgar had a warrant knock that sounded like no other Bosch had ever heard. Like a gifted athlete who can focus the forces of his whole body into the swinging of a bat or the dunking of a basketball, Edgar could put his whole weight and six-foot-four frame into his knock. It was as though he could call down and concentrate all the power and fury of the righteous into the fist of his large left hand. He’d plant his feet firmly and stand sideways to the door. He’d raise his left arm, bend the elbow to less than thirty degrees and hit the door with the fleshy side of his fist. It was a backhand knock, but he was able to fire the pistons of this muscle assembly so quickly that it sounded like the staccato bark of a machine gun. What it sounded like was Judgment Day.
    Samuel Delacroix’s aluminum-skinned trailer seemed to shudder from end to end when Edgar hit its