Lost Light

didn’t say anything about it this time.
    “Thanks, Eleanor.”
    “Okay, Harry, I need to juggle some things to get free tonight. So I’m going to go. I’ll see you at the airport. Seven-fifteen. Bye.”
    I said good-bye but she had already hung up. It sounded as though there was another voice in the background just as she disconnected the call.
    As I thought about this, Louis Armstrong started singing “What a Wonderful World” and I turned it up.

30
    At 7:15 that night Eleanor and I repeated the same airport scene. Right down to the kiss when I got into the car. Afterward, I turned awkwardly and lifted the heavy murder book I’d been carrying over the front seats to the back. I dropped it on the backseat next to my suitcase which was on the seat behind Eleanor.
    “That looks like a murder book, Harry.”
    “It is. I thought I might be able to go through it on the flight.”
    “And?”
    “I had a screaming baby in the seat behind me. Couldn’t concentrate. Why would anybody bring a kid to Vegas anyway?”
    “It’s actually not a bad place to raise a kid. Supposedly.”
    “I’m not talking about raising. I mean, why take a little kid like that on a vacation to Sin City? Take him to Disneyland or something.”
    “I think you need a drink.”
    “And some food. Where do you want to eat?”
    “Well, remember when we were still… in L.A. and we’d go to Valentino on special occasions?”
    “Don’t tell me.”
    She laughed and just being able to look at her again thrilled me. I really liked the way her hair accented her lovely neck.
    “Yep, they have one here. I made a reservation.”
    “They must have one of everything in Las Vegas.”
    “Except you. There’s absolutely no duplicating Harry Bosch.”
    The smile stayed on her face as she said it and I liked that, too. We soon dropped into a silence probably as comfortable as it can get with two formerly married people. She expertly maneuvered through traffic that looked like it could easily rival anything found on Los Angeles’ clogged streets and freeways.
    It had been about three years since I’d been on the strip but Vegas was a place that taught that time was relative. In three years it had all seemed to change again. I saw new resorts and attractions, taxicabs with electronic ad placards on their roofs, monorails connecting the casinos.
    The Las Vegas version of Valentino was in the Venetian, one of the newest jewels in the crown of high-end casinos on the strip. It was a place that didn’t even exist the last time I had been in town. When Eleanor pulled into the valet parking circle I told her to pop the trunk so I could put my suitcase and the murder book in it.
    “I can’t. It’s full.”
    “I don’t want to leave this stuff out, especially the murder book.”
    “Well, put it in the bag and put it on the floor. It will be all right.”
    “Don’t you have room back there for just the book?”
    “No, everything is jam-packed in there and if I open it, then it will all spill out. I don’t want that to happen here.”
    “What is in it?”
    “Just clothes and things. Stuff I want to take to the Salvation Army but haven’t had the time.”
    Two valets opened our doors simultaneously and welcomed us to the resort. I got out, opened the back door and leaned in to open the carry-on bag and put the murder book inside it. After closing the bag I slid it down to the floor behind Eleanor’s seat.
    “You coming, Harry?” Eleanor asked from behind me.
    “Yeah, I’m coming.”
    As the valet was driving the car away I looked at the trunk and back end. It didn’t seem particularly heavy. I looked at the license plate and silently read it three times to myself.
    Valentino was Valentino. As far as I could tell, the L.A. restaurant had been perfectly cloned. It was like trying to tell the difference between one McDonald’s and another-on a much different culinary level.
    I didn’t force the conversation while we ate. I was comfortable and happy just being with her. At first the conversation, though spare, was focused on me and my retirement or lack thereof. I told her about the case I was working, including the connection to her old friend and colleague Marty Gessler. In another lifetime Eleanor had been an FBI agent and she still had the analytical mind of an investigator. When we were together in L.A. she had often been a sounding board for me and on more than one occasion had helped with a suggestion or idea.
    This time she had