The Black Box

he asked.
    Bonn told him, spelling it out, and now Bosch finally had something to write down.
    It was faster calling than going back in and having to get through security. Pistol Pete answered in two rings.
    “It’s Bosch. Did you get something?”
    “I told you on the message,” Sargent said.
    His voice was flat. Bosch took it as bad news.
    “I didn’t listen to it. I just called you back. What happened?”
    Bosch held his breath.
    “It’s pretty good news, actually. Got it all except for one digit. That narrows it down to ten possibilities.”
    Bosch had worked previous gun cases where he had a lot less to go with. He still had his notebook out and he told Sargent to give him what he’d come up with off the gun. He wrote it down and read it back to confirm.
    BER0060_5Z
    “It’s that eighth digit, Harry,” Sargent said. “It wouldn’t come up. I’ve got a slight crescent at the top, so I’m leaning toward it being another zero or a three, eight, or nine. Something with a crescent on top.”
    “Got it. I’m on my way back to the office and will run it through the box. Pistol Pete, you came through. Thank you, man.”
    “Anytime, Harry. Anytime you bring the Giamela’s!”
    Bosch disconnected the call and started the car. He then called his partner, who took the call at his desk. Bosch read him the Beretta serial number and told him to start tracing all ten possibilities for the full number. The place to start was the California DOJ database because Chu could access it and it would track all weapons sold in the state. If there was no hit there, they would have to request the trace through the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. That would slow things down. The feds weren’t the fastest movers and the ATF had been rocked by a series of scandals and blunders that had also served to slow down action on requests from local law enforcement.
    But Bosch stayed positive. He’d gotten lucky with Pistol Pete and the serial number. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t hold.
    He pulled into heavy traffic on San Fernando Road and started south. He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get back to the PAB.
    “Hey, Harry?” Chu said, his voice low.
    “What?”
    “Somebody from IA came around looking to talk to you.”
    So much for his luck holding. O’Toole must’ve hand-delivered the complaint to the PSB—still called IA or IAD by most cops, despite the official name change.
    “What was his name? Is he still there?”
    “It was a she and she said her name was Detective Mendenhall. She went in with O’Toole and closed the door for a little bit and then I think she left.”
    “Okay, I’ll deal with it. Run that number.”
    “Will do.”
    Bosch disconnected. His lane was not moving and he could not see ahead because the Humvee in front of him blocked his view. He blew out his breath and honked the car horn in frustration. He felt that more than his luck was suddenly ebbing away. His momentum and positive attitude were eroding. It suddenly felt like it was getting dark out.

15
    C hu was not in the cubicle when Bosch got back to the PAB. He checked the clock on the wall and saw that it was only 3 P.M. If his partner had left for the day early to make up for the long hours the day before and without running the serial numbers through the DOJ computer, Bosch would be livid. He stepped over and hit the space bar on Chu’s keyboard. The screen lit but it was his password gateway. He scanned Chu’s desk for a printout of a DOJ gun registry form but saw nothing. Rick Jackson’s cubicle was on the other side of the four-foot separation wall.
    “You seen Chu?” Bosch asked him.
    Jackson straightened up in his chair and looked around the squad room as if he would be able to recognize Chu, whereas Bosch could not.
    “No . . . he was here. I think he might’ve gone to the head or something.”
    Bosch glanced into the lieutenant’s office just to make sure Chu wasn’t closeted with O’Toole. He wasn’t. O’Toole was hunched over his desk, writing something.
    Bosch moved over to his own desk. There were no printoutsleft for him but he did see a card left by Nancy Mendenhall, detective III, of the Professional Standards Bureau.
    “So, Harry . . .,” Jackson said in a low voice. “I hear the Tool filed a beef on you.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Is it bullshit?”
    “Yeah.”
    Jackson shook his head.
    “I figured. What an ass.”
    Jackson had been around longer than anybody in the