The Concrete Blonde (hb-3)

you, and excuse the language, but I don’t give a flying fuck what that jury decides or how much money they give those people. That jury has no idea what it’s like to be out there on the edge. To have to make the decisions that may cost or save lives. You can’t take a week to accurately examine and judge the decision you had to make in a second.”
    Bosch was trying to think of something to say and the silence seemed to drag on too long.
    “Anyway,” Irving finally said, “I guess it’s taken me four years to come to that conclusion. But better late than never.”
    “Hey, I could use you for closing arguments tomorrow.”
    Irving’s face cringed, the muscular jaws flexing as if he had just taken a mouthful of cold sauerkraut.
    “Don’t get me started on that, either. I mean, what is this city doing? The city attorney’s office is nothing but a school. A law school for trial lawyers. And the taxpayers pay the tuition. We get these greenhorn, uh, uh, preppies, who don’t know the first thing about trial law. They learn from the mistakes they make in court when it counts-for us. And when they finally get good and know what the hell they’re doing, they quit and then they’re the lawyers suing us!”
    Bosch had never seen Irving so animated. It was as if he had taken off the starched public persona he always wore like a uniform. Harry was entranced.
    “Sorry about that,” Irving said. “I get carried away. Anyway, good luck with this jury but don’t let it worry you.”
    Bosch said nothing.
    “You know, Bosch, it only takes a half-hour meeting with Lieutenant Rollenberger in the room for me to want to take a good look at myself and this department and where it’s headed. He’s not the LAPD I joined or you joined. He’s a good manager, yes, and so am I, at least I think so. But we can’t forget we’re cops...”
    Bosch didn’t know what to say, or if he should say anything. It seemed that Irving was almost rambling now. As if there was something he wanted to say, but was looking for anything else to say instead.
    “Hans Rollenberger. What a name, huh? I can guess, the detectives in his crew must call him ‘Hans Off,’ am I right?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “Yes, well, I guess that’s expected. He-uh, you know, Harry, I’ve got thirty-eight years in the department.”
    Bosch just nodded. This was getting weird. Irving had never even called him by his first name before.
    “And, uh, I worked Hollywood patrol for a lot of years right out of the academy... That question Money Chandler asked me about your mother. That really came out of the blue and I’m sorry about that, Harry, sorry for your loss.”
    “It was a long time ago.” Bosch waited a beat. Irving was looking down at his hands, which were clasped on the table. “If that’s it, I think I’ll-”
    “Yes, that’s basically it, but, you know, what I wanted to tell you is that I was there that day.”
    “What day?”
    “That day that your mother-I was the RO.”
    “The reporting officer?”
    “Yes, I was the one that found her. I was walking a foot beat on the Boulevard and I ducked into that alley off of Gower. I usually hit it once a day and, uh, I found her... When Chandler showed me those reports I recognized the case right away. She didn’t know my badge number-it was there on the report-or she would’ve known I was the one who found her. Chandler would’ve had some kind of a field day with that, I guess...”
    This was hard for Bosch to sit through. Now he was glad Irving wasn’t looking at him. He knew, or thought he knew, what it was that Irving wasn’t saying. If he had worked the Boulevard foot beat, then he had known Bosch’s mother before she was dead.
    Irving glanced up at him and then looked away, toward the corner of the room. His eyes fell on the ficus plant.
    “Somebody put a cigarette butt in my pot,” he said. “That yours, Harry?”

Chapter 20
    Bosch was lighting a cigarette as he used his shoulder to push through one of the glass doors at the entrance to Parker Center. Irving had jolted him with his small-world story. Bosch had always figured he’d run into somebody in the department who knew her or knew the case. Never did Irving fit into that scenario.
    As he walked through the south lot to the Caprice he noticed Jerry Edgar standing at the corner of Los Angeles and First waiting for the cross light. Bosch looked at his watch and saw it was 5:10, quitting time. He thought Edgar was probably