The Closers

the review of his handling of the case.
    “It’s tough to argue with results,” Pratt said.
    “We’ll see.”
    Bosch started getting a call-waiting signal on his phone. He told Pratt he had to go and clicked over to the new call. It was McKenzie Ward from the
Daily News
.
    “My sister was listening to the scanner in the photo shop,” she said urgently. “She said a backup unit and an ambulance were sent to the Verloren house. She recognized the address.”
    “That’s right.”
    “What’s going on, Detective? We had a deal, remember?”
    “Yeah, I remember. And I was just about to call you.”

42
    THE KITCHEN at the Metro Shelter was dark. Bosch went to the small lobby of the adjoining hotel and spoke to the man behind the glass window. He asked for Robert Verloren’s room number.
    “He’s gone, man.”
    Something about the finality in his tone put a hollow into Bosch’s chest. It didn’t sound like he meant Verloren had gone out for the night.
    “What do you mean gone?”
    “I mean gone. He did his thing and he’s gone. That’s it.”
    Bosch took a step closer to the glass. The man had a paperback novel open on the counter and had not looked up from its yellowed pages.
    “Hey, look at me.”
    The man flipped the book over to not lose his page and looked up. Bosch showed him his badge. He then glanced down and saw the book was called
Ask the Dust
.
    “Yes, Officer.”
    Bosch looked back up at the man’s tired eyes.
    “What do you mean,
He did his thing,
and what do you mean he’s gone?”
    The man shrugged.
    “He came in drunk and that’s the one rule we got around here. No drinking. No drunks.”
    “He was fired?”
    The man nodded.
    “What about his room?”
    “Room came with the job. Like I said, he’s gone.”
    “Where?”
    The man shrugged one more time. He pointed to the door that led to the sidewalk on Fifth Street. He was telling Bosch that Verloren was out there somewhere.
    “It happens,” the man said.
    Bosch looked back at him.
    “When did he go?”
    “Yesterday. It was you cops who did it to him, you know.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I heard some cop came in here, told him some shit. I don’t know what it was about, but that was right before-know what I’m saying? He got off work and went out and took the taste again. And that was that. All I know is, we need a new chef now ’cause the guy they got fillin’ in can’t make eggs for shit.”
    Bosch said nothing else to the man. He stepped away from the window and went to the door. Outside the shelter the street was teeming with people. The night people. The damaged and displaced. People hiding from others and hiding from themselves. People running from the past, from the things they did and the things they didn’t do.
    Bosch knew the story was going to hit the news in the morning. He had wanted to tell it to Robert Verloren himself.
    Bosch decided he would look for Robert Verloren out there. He didn’t know what the news he would bring would do for him. He didn’t know if it would bring Verloren out or push him further into the hole. Maybe nothing could help him now. But he needed to tell him anyway. The world was full of people who could not get over things. There was no closure and there was no peace. The truth did not set you free. But you could get through things. That’s what Bosch would tell him. You could head toward the light and climb and dig and fight your way out of the hole.
    Bosch pushed open the door and headed out into the night.

43
    THE POLICE ACADEMY parade field was nestled like a green blanket against one of the wooded hills of Elysian Park. It was a beautiful and shaded place and spoke well of the tradition the police chief had wanted Bosch to be reminded of.
    At 8 a.m. on the morning following his fruitless night search for Robert Verloren, Bosch presented himself at the graduation check-in table and was escorted to an assigned seat on the platform beneath the VIP tent. There were four rows of chairs in formation behind the lectern from which the speeches would be made. Bosch’s seat looked out across the parade grounds where the new cadets would march, then form up and be inspected. As an invited guest of the chief he would be one of the inspectors.
    Bosch was in full uniform. It was tradition to fly the colors at the graduation of new officers-to welcome them to the uniform in the uniform. And he was early. He sat by himself and listened to the police band play old standards. As