The Black Box

process is moving too slowly, taking a whole day to receive answers to my questions. If I cannot speak directly to him, can we set up a conference call so that you can translate? Please respond as soon as
    The phone on Bosch’s desk rang and he grabbed it without taking his eyes off his computer screen.
    “Bosch.”
    “This is Lieutenant O’Toole.”
    Bosch turned and glanced toward the corner office. He could see through the open blinds that O’Toole was at his desk, looking directly back at him.
    “What’s up, L-T?”
    “Did you not see my note telling you I needed to see you immediately?”
    “Yes, I got it last night but you were already gone. Today I didn’t realize you were here yet. I had to send an important email to Denmark. Things are—”
    “I want you in my office. Now .”
    “On my way.”
    Bosch quickly finished typing the email and sent it. He then got up and went to the lieutenant’s office, surveying the squad room as he went. No one else was in yet, just O’Toole and him. Whatever was about to happen, there would be no independent witnesses.
    As Bosch entered the office, O’Toole told him to sit down. Bosch did so.
    “Is this about the Death Squad case? Because I—”
    “Who is Shawn Stone?”
    “What?”
    “I said who is Shawn Stone?”
    Bosch hesitated, trying to figure out what O’Toole was trying to do. He instinctively knew that the best move was to play it wide open and honest.
    “He’s a convicted rapist serving a sentence at San Quentin.”
    “And what is your business with him?”
    “I don’t have any business with him.”
    “Did you speak to him Monday when you were up there?”
    O’Toole was looking at a single-page document that he held in both hands, elbows on his desk.
    “Yes, I did.”
    “Did you deposit one hundred dollars in his prison canteen account?”
    “Yes, I did that, too. What’s—”
    “Since you say you have no business with him, what is your relationship with him?”
    “He’s the son of a friend of mine. I had some extra time up there, so I asked to see him. Previously, I had never met him before.”
    O’Toole frowned, his eyes still on the paper he held between his two hands.
    “So at taxpayers’ expense, you paid a visit to your friend’s son and dropped a hundred into his canteen account. Do I have that right?”
    Bosch paused as he sized up the situation. He knew what O’Toole was doing.
    “No, you don’t have anything right, Lieutenant. I went up there—at taxpayers’ expense—to interview a convict with vital information in the Anneke Jespersen case. I got that information and with time left before I had to return to the airport, I checked on Shawn Stone. I also made the deposit in his account. The whole thing took less than a half hour and it caused me no delay in my return to Los Angeles. If you are going to take a run at me, Lieutenant, you are going to need something more than that.”
    O’Toole nodded thoughtfully.
    “Well, we’ll let the PSB decide that.”
    Bosch wanted to reach over and yank O’Toole across the desk by his tie. The PSB was the Professional Standards Bureau, the new name for Internal Affairs. A black rose by any other name smelled just as rotten to Bosch. He stood up.
    “You are filing a one-twenty-eight on me?”
    “I am.”
    Bosch shook his head. He could not believe the shortsightedness of the move.
    “Do you realize you are going to lose the entire room if you go ahead with this?”
    He was talking about the squad room. As soon as the rest of the detectives learned that O’Toole was making a move on Bosch for something as trivial as a fifteen-minute conversation at San Quentin, the meager level of respect O’Toole enjoyed would collapse like a bridge made of toothpicks. Oddly, Bosch was more worried about O’Toole and his standing in the unit than about the PSB investigation that would follow his ill-advised move.
    “That’s not my concern,” O’Toole said. “My concern is the integrity of the unit.”
    “You are making a mistake, Lieutenant, and for what? For this? Because I wouldn’t let you kill my investigation?”
    “I can assure you, one has nothing to do with the other.”
    Bosch shook his head again.
    “I can assure you that I will walk away from this, but you won’t.”
    “Is that some kind of a threat?”
    Bosch didn’t dignify that with a response. He turned and headed out of the office.
    “Where are you going, Bosch?”
    “I have a case to work.”
    “Not