The Black Box

information for Jannik Frej?”
    “I’d rather hold while you get it for me now.”
    There was a pause.
    “I see. Very well, I will try to be quick.”
    Bosch was put on hold again. This time he didn’t look toward the lieutenant’s office. He turned and looked behind him and saw that Chu was gone, probably having stepped out for lunch.
    “Detective Bosch?”
    It was Bonn back on the line.
    “Yes.”
    “I have an email for Jannik Frej.”
    “What about a phone number?”
    “We don’t have that available at the moment. I will keep looking and will get it to you. But for now, do you want the email address?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    He copied Frej’s email address down and then gave Bonn his own email and phone number.
    “Good luck, Detective,” Bonn said.
    “Thank you.”
    “You know, I wasn’t here back then, when it happened. But ten years ago I was here and I remember we did a big story on Anneke and the case. Would you like to see it?”
    Bosch hesitated.
    “It would be in Danish, wouldn’t it?”
    “Yes, but there are several translation sites on the Internet that you could use.”
    Bosch wasn’t sure what he meant but invited Bonn to send him a link to the story. He thanked him again and then disconnected.

9
    B osch realized he was famished. He took the elevator down to the lobby, went out the main entrance, and crossed the front plaza. The plan was to walk over to Philippe’s for a roast beef sandwich but his cell buzzed before he even got across First Street. It was Jordy Gant.
    “Harry, we already got your guy.”
    “Two Small?”
    “That’s right. I just got the call from one of my guys. They picked him up coming out of a McDonald’s on Normandie. One of the guys I got to in roll call this morning had his picture on the visor. Sure enough, it was Two Small.”
    “Where’d they take him?”
    “Seventy-seventh. He’s being booked as we speak, and right now they’re only holding him on the bench warrant. I figure if you move now, you can get there before he can get to a lawyer.”
    “I’m on my way.”
    “How ’bout I meet you and sit in?”
    “See you there.”
    It took him only twenty minutes in midday traffic to get to77th Street Station. The whole way he thought about how to play Washburn. Bosch had nothing on 2 Small but a hunch based on proximity. No evidence of anything and nothing for sure. It seemed to him that his one shot was a play. To convince Washburn that he had something and to use the lie to draw out an admission. It was the weakest way to go, especially with a suspect that had been around the block a few times with the police. But it was all he had.
    At 77th, Gant was already in the watch office waiting for him.
    “I had him moved down to the D bureau. You ready?”
    “I’m ready.”
    Bosch saw a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on a counter behind the patrol lieutenant’s desk. It was open and there were only two doughnuts left, probably sitting there since the morning’s roll call.
    “Hey, does anybody mind?”
    He pointed toward the doughnuts.
    “Knock yourself out,” Gant said.
    Bosch took a glazed doughnut and ate it in four bites while he followed Gant down the back hallway of the station to the detective bureau.
    They entered the sprawling squad room of desks, file cabinets, and piles of paperwork. Most of the desks were empty and Bosch figured the detectives were out working cases or on lunch break. He saw a tissue box on one of the empty desks and pulled out three tissues to wipe the sugar off his fingers.
    A patrol officer was sitting outside the door of one of the two interrogation rooms. He stood up as Gant and Boschapproached. Gant introduced him as Chris Mercer, the patrolman who had spotted 2 Small Washburn.
    “Nice work,” Bosch said, shaking his hand. “Did you read him the words?”
    Meaning his constitutional rights and protections.
    “I did.”
    “Great.”
    “Thank you, Chris,” Gant said. “We’ll take it from here.”
    The officer gave a mock salute and headed out. Gant looked at Bosch.
    “Any particular way you want to do this?”
    “We have anything on him besides the warrant?”
    “A little. He had a half ounce of weed on him.”
    Bosch frowned. It wasn’t much.
    “He also had six hundred dollars cash.”
    Bosch nodded. That made things a little better. He might be able to work with the money, depending on how smart Washburn was about current drug laws.
    “I’m going to run a game on him, see if I can get him to