The Overlook

Lundy and John Parkyn. They ignored Bosch because he was too old and asked Ferras for his ID.
    “Who are you looking for?” Bosch asked.
    “That’s government business, sir. We just need to check some IDs.”
    Ferras opened his badge wallet. On one side it had his photo and police ID and on the other side his detective’s badge. It seemed to freeze the two agents.
    “It’s funny,” Bosch said. “If you’re looking at IDs that means you have a name. But I never gave Agent Brenner the witness’s name. Makes me wonder. You guys over there in Tactical Intelligence don’t happen to have a bug in our computer or maybe our squad room, do you?”
    Lundy, the one obviously in charge of the pickup detail, looked squarely at Bosch. His eyes were as gray as gravel.
    “And you are?” he asked.
    “You want to see my ID, too? I haven’t passed for a twenty-year-old in a long time, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”
    He pulled out his badge wallet and handed it to Lundy unopened. The agent opened it and examined the contents very closely. He took his time.
    “Hieronymus Bosch,” he said, reading the name on the ID. “Wasn’t there some sick creep of a painter named that? Or have I got it confused with one of the bottom-feeders I’ve read about in the overnights.”
    Bosch smiled back at him.
    “Some people consider the painter a master of the Renaissance period,” he said.
    Lundy dropped the badge wallet on Bosch’s plate. Bosch hadn’t finished his eggs yet but luckily the yolks were overcooked.
    “I don’t know what the game is here, Bosch. Where’s Jesse Mitford?”
    Bosch picked up his badge wallet and used his napkin to clean egg debris off it. He took his time, put the wallet away and then he looked back up at Lundy.
    “Who’s Jesse Mitford?”
    Lundy leaned down and put both hands on the table.
    “You know damn well who he is and we need to take him in.”
    Bosch nodded as though he understood the situation perfectly.
    “We can talk about Mitford and everything else at the meeting at ten. Right after I interview Kent ’s partner and his wife.”
    Lundy smiled in a way that carried no friendliness or humor.
    “You know something, pal? You’re going to need a Renaissance period yourself when this is all over.”
    Bosch smiled again.
    “See you at the meeting, Agent Lundy. In the meantime, we’re eating. Can you go bother somebody else?”
    Bosch picked up his knife and started spreading strawberry jam from a little plastic container on his last piece of toast.
    Lundy straightened up and pointed at Bosch’s chest.
    “You better be careful, Bosch.”
    With that he turned and headed toward the door. He signaled to the other team of agents and pointed toward the exit. Bosch watched them go.
    “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said.

ELEVEN
    THE SUN WAS STILL BELOW the ridgeline but dawn had a full grip on the sky. In daylight the Mulholland overlook showed no sign of the violence of the night before. Even the debris usually left behind at a crime scene-rubber gloves, coffee cups and yellow tape-had somehow been cleaned up or maybe had blown away. It was as if Stanley Kent had not been shot to death, his body never left on the promontory with the jetliner view of the city below. Bosch had investigated hundreds of murders during his time with the badge. He never got over how quickly the city seemed to heal itself-at least outwardly-and move on. To act as though nothing had ever happened.
    Bosch kicked at the soft, orange ground and watched the dirt drop over the edge into the brush below. He made a decision and headed back toward the car. Ferras watched him go.
    “What are you going to do?” Ferras asked.
    “I’m going in. If you’re coming, get in the car.”
    Ferras hesitated and then trotted after Bosch. They got back in the Crown Vic and drove over to Arrowhead Drive. Bosch knew that the feds had Alicia Kent but he still had the key ring from her husband’s Porsche.
    The fed car they had spotted when they had driven by ten minutes earlier was still parked in front of the Kent house. Bosch pulled into the driveway, got out and headed with purpose to the front door. He ignored the car in the street, even when he heard its door open. He managed to find the right key and get it into the lock before they were hit with a voice from behind.
    “FBI. Hold it right there.”
    Bosch put his hand on the knob.
    “Do not open that door.”
    Bosch turned and looked at the man approaching on the