The Black Box

sight. She smiled sweetly at him as he approached her desk.
    “Detective Bosch, how are you?” she asked.
    “I’m fine, Ms. Rose. How are things up here?”
    “I’m not sure they could be any better. But I am sorry, I don’t have you on the chief’s calendar today. Have I made a mistake?”
    “No, no mistake, Ms. Rose. I was just hoping to see if Marty—I mean, if the chief—has five minutes for me.”
    Her eyes flitted down for a moment to the multiple-line telephone on her desk. One of the line buttons was glowing red.
    “Oh, dear, he’s on a call.”
    But Bosch knew that line was always lit, just so Alta Rose could turn people away if need be. Harry’s former partner Kiz Rider had spent time working in the chief’s office and had told Bosch the secret.
    “He also has an evening appointment he’s going to have to leave for as soon as—”
    “Three minutes, Ms. Rose. Just ask him. I think he’s probably even expecting me.”
    Alta Rose frowned but got up from her desk and disappeared behind the big door to the inner sanctum. Bosch stood waiting.
    Chief Martin Maycock had come up through the ranks. Twenty-five years before, he had been an RHD detective assigned to Homicide Special. So was Bosch. They had never partnered but they had worked task-force cases together, most notably on the Dollmaker investigation, which ended when Bosch shot the infamous serial killer to death in his Silver Lake kill pad. Maycock was handsome and more than competent, and he had a name that was easily if awkwardly remembered. He used the media attention and celebrity from those big cases to launch his rise through the command structure of the department, culminating in his appointment by the police commission as chief.
    The rank and file was at first buoyed by the elevation of a homegrown badge to the tenth floor. But three years into his appointment, the honeymoon was over. Maycock presided over a department crippled by a hiring freeze, a devastating budget crunch, and the various and sundry scandals that came along every few months. Crime had plummeted but it wasn’t garnering him any credit or political traction. Worse than that was that the rank and file had begun to view him as a politician more interested in getting on the six-o’clock news than showing up at roll calls and the scenes of cop shootings. An old nickname for the chief—Marty MyCock—had found arenaissance in the locker rooms, parking lots, and bars where cops gathered on or off duty.
    For a long time Bosch had kept the faith, but the year before, he had inadvertently helped the chief win a treacherous political battle with a city councilman who was the department’s top critic. It was a setup in which Bosch had been used by Kiz Rider. She got a promotion out of it—she was now a captain running West Valley Division. But Bosch had not spoken to her or the chief since.
    Alta Rose returned through the inner sanctum door and held it open for Bosch.
    “You have five minutes with the chief, Detective Bosch.”
    “Thank you, Ms. Rose.”
    Bosch entered and found Maycock sitting behind a large desk festooned with police and sports tchotchkes and memorabilia. The office was large and included a large private balcony, an adjoining boardroom with a twelve-foot-long meeting table, and a sweeping view of the civic center.
    “Harry Bosch, I had a feeling I might hear from you today.”
    They shook hands. Bosch stayed standing in front of the great wide desk. He couldn’t deny that he liked his old colleague. He just didn’t like what he was doing and what he had become.
    “Then, why did you use O’Toole? Why didn’t you just call me up? You called me up last year on that Irving thing.”
    “Yeah, but that got messy. I went with O’Toole and now it’s messy again.”
    “What do you want, Marty?”
    “Do I have to say it?”
    “She was executed, Marty. Put up against a wall and shotin the eye. And because she was white, you don’t want me to clear it?”
    “It’s not like that. Of course I want you to clear it. But it’s a sensitive situation. If it comes out big that the only riot killing we clear during the twentieth-anniversary year is the white girl murdered by some gangbanger, then we’re going to have to deal with some ugly shit. It’s been twenty years but we haven’t come that far, Harry. You never know what could light the match again.”
    Bosch turned from the desk and looked out through the glass at City Hall.
    “You’re