The Black Box

Story, was on the next mappage. His body had been found lying on a sidewalk in Circle Park, which was in the heart of 7-Trey turf.
    Bosch studied the map for a long time, flipping the pages back and forth. Considering that Jordy Gant said Story had most likely been dumped in the location where his body was found, Bosch concluded that he was looking at a very small concentration point in the city. Six murders, possibly just one gun used. And it had all started with the one murder that did not fit with those that followed. Anneke Jespersen, photojournalist, murdered in a spot far from home.
    “Snow White,” Bosch whispered.
    He opened the Jespersen murder book and looked at the photo from her press pass. He could not fathom what she had been doing out there on her own and what had happened.
    Harry pulled the black box across the desk. Just as he opened it, his cell phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Hannah Stone, the woman he had been in a relationship with for nearly a year.
    “Happy birthday, Harry!”
    “Who told you?”
    “A little bird.”
    His daughter.
    “She ought to mind her own business.”
    “I think it is her business. I know she probably has you all to herself tonight, so I was calling to see if I could take you out for a birthday lunch.”
    Bosch checked his watch. It was already noon.
    “Today?”
    “Today’s your birthday, isn’t it? I would’ve called earlier butmy group session went long. Come on, what do you say? You know we have the best taco trucks in the city up here.”
    Bosch knew he needed to talk to her about San Quentin.
    “I don’t know about that claim, but if I get good traffic, I can be there in twenty minutes.”
    “Perfect.”
    “See you.”
    He disconnected and looked at the black box on his desk. He’d get to it after lunch.
    They decided on a sit-down restaurant instead of a taco truck. Upscale wasn’t really a choice in Panorama City, so they drove down to Van Nuys and ate in the basement cafeteria of the courthouse. It wasn’t exactly upscale either but there was an old jazzman who played a baby grand in the corner most days. It was one of the secrets of the city that Bosch knew. Hannah was impressed. They took a table close to the music.
    They split a turkey sandwich and each had a bowl of soup. The music smoothed over the quiet spots in the conversation. Bosch was learning to get comfortable with Hannah. He had met her while working a case the year before. She was a therapist who worked with sexual offenders after their release from prison. It was tough work and it gave her some of the same dark knowledge of the world that Bosch carried.
    “I haven’t heard from you in a few days,” Hannah said. “What have you been up to?”
    “Oh, just a case. Walking a gun.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Connecting or walking a gun from case to case to case. We don’t have the weapon itself but ballistics matches linkcases. You know, across the years, across geography, victims, like that. A case like this is called a gun walk.”
    He offered nothing further and she nodded. She knew he never answered questions about his work in detail.
    Bosch listened to the piano man finish “Mood Indigo” and then cleared his throat.
    “I met your son yesterday, Hannah,” he said.
    He hadn’t been sure how to broach the subject. And so he ended up doing it without finesse. Hannah put her soupspoon down on her plate with a sharpness that made the piano man raise his hands off the keys.
    “What do you mean?” she asked.
    “I was up at San Quentin on the case,” he said. “You know, walking the gun, and I had to see someone up there. When I was finished, I had a little bit of time, so I asked to see your son. I only spent ten or fifteen minutes with him. I told him who I was and he said he’d heard of me, that you told him about me.”
    Hannah stared into space. Bosch realized he had played it wrong. Her son was not a secret. They had talked about him at length. Bosch knew that he was a sexual offender in prison after pleading guilty to rape. His crime had nearly destroyed his mother but she had found a way to carry on by changing the focus of her work. She moved from family therapy to treating offenders like her own son. And it was that work that had brought her to Bosch. Bosch was thankful that she was in his life and understood the dark serendipity of it. If the son had not committed such a horrendous crime, Bosch would never have met the mother.
    “I guess I