Echo Park

department. He didn’t want to see the man sitting on the city council.
    The election stories and wrap-ups that ran almost daily in the
Times
had kept Bosch up to date on other contests as well as the Maizel-Irving contest. He knew all about the fight O’Shea was involved in. The prosecutor was in the process of bolstering his candidacy with high-profile advertisements and prosecutions designed to show the value of his experience. A month earlier he had parlayed the preliminary hearing in the Raynard Waits case into daily headlines and top-of-the-broadcast reports. The accused double murderer had been pulled over in Echo Park on a late-night traffic stop. Officers spied trash bags on the floor of the man’s van with blood leaking from them. A subsequent search found body parts from two women in the bags. If ever there was a safe, slam-bang case for a prosecutor-candidate to use to grab media attention, the Echo Park Bagman case appeared to be it.
    The catch was that the headlines were now on hold. Waits was bound over for trial at the end of the preliminary hearing and, since it was a death penalty case, that trial and the attendant renewal of headlines were still months off and well after the election. O’Shea needed something new to grab headlines and keep momentum going. Now Bosch had to wonder what the candidate was up to with the Gesto case.
    “Do you think Gesto could be related to Waits?” Rider asked.
    “That name never came up in ’ninety-three,” Bosch said. “Neither did Echo Park.”
    The phone rang and he quickly picked it up.
    “Open-Unsolved. This is Detective Bosch. How can I help you?”
    “Olivas. Bring the file over to the sixteenth floor at eleven o’clock. You’ll meet with Richard O’Shea. You’re in, Hotshot.”
    “We’ll be there.”
    “Wait a minute. What’s this
we
shit? I said
you,
you be there with the file.”
    “I have a partner, Olivas. I’ll be with her.”
    Bosch hung up without a good-bye. He looked across at Rider.
    “We’re in at eleven.”
    “What about Matarese?”
    “We’ll figure it out.”
    He thought about things for a few moments, then got up and went to the locked filing cabinet behind his desk. He pulled the Gesto file and brought it back to his spot. Since returning to the job from retirement the year before, he had checked the file out of Archives three different times. Each time, he read through it, made some calls and visits and talked to a few of the individuals who had come up in the investigation thirteen years before. Rider knew about the case and what it meant to him. She gave him the space to work it when they had nothing else pressing.
    But nothing came of the effort. There was no DNA , no fingerprints, no lead on Gesto’s whereabouts—though to him there still was no doubt that she was dead—and no solid lead to her abductor. Bosch had leaned repeatedly on the one man who came closest to being a suspect and got nowhere. He was able to trace Marie Gesto from her apartment to the supermarket but no further. He had her car in the garage at the High Tower Apartments but he couldn’t get to the person who had parked it there.
    Bosch had plenty of unsolved cases in his history. You can’t clear them all and any Homicide man would admit it. But the Gesto case was one that stuck with him. Each time he would work the case for a week or so, hit the wall and then return the file to Archives, thinking he had done all that could be done. But the absolution only lasted a few months and then there he was at the counter filling out the file request form again. He would not give up.
    “Bosch,” one of the other detectives called out. “Miami on two.”
    Bosch hadn’t even heard the phone ring in the squad room.
    “I’ll take it,” Rider said. “Your head’s somewhere else.”
    She picked up the phone and once more Bosch opened the Gesto file.

2

    BOSCH AND RIDER WERE ten minutes late because of the backup of people waiting for elevators. He hated coming to the Criminal Courts Building because of the elevators. The wait and the jostling for position just to get on one of them put a layer of anxiety on him that he could live without.
    In reception in the DA’s office on the sixteenth floor they were told to wait for an escort back to O’Shea’s office. After a couple minutes a man stepped through the doorway and pointed to the briefcase Bosch was holding.
    “You got it?” he asked.
    Bosch didn’t recognize him. He was a