The Reversal

thing or not.
    “I have two sandwiches here, Clive,” Lorna said. “Would you like one?”
    It was the wrong time for Lorna to be magnanimous.
    “I think he was just about to leave,” I said quickly.
    “Yes, love, I must go. But thank you for the most gracious offer.”
    “I’ll be out here if you need me, Mickey.”
    Lorna went back to the reception room, closing the door behind her. Royce turned back to me and spoke in a low voice.
    “You know you should never have let that one go, Mick. She was the keeper. And now, joining forces with the first Mrs. Haller to deprive an innocent man of his long-deserved freedom, there is something incestuous about the whole thing, isn’t there?”
    I just looked at him for a long moment.
    “Is there anything else, Clive?”
    He held up the disc.
    “I think this should do it for today.”
    “Good. I have to get back to work.”
    I walked him out through reception and closed the door after him. I turned and looked at Lorna.
    “Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she said. “Being on this side of it—the prosecution side.”
    “It does.”
    She held up one of the sandwich bags.
    “Can I ask you something?” I said. “Whose sandwich were you going to give him, yours or mine?”
    She looked at me with a straight face, then a smile of guilt leaked out.
    “I was being polite, okay? I thought you and I could share.”
    I shook my head.
    “Don’t be giving my French dip sandwich to anybody. Especially a defense lawyer.”
    I snatched the bag from her hand.
    “Thank you, love,” I said in my best British accent.
    She laughed and I headed back into my office to eat.

Twelve
    Thursday, February 18, 3:31 P.M .
    A fter driving off the ferry at Port Townsend, Bosch and McPherson followed directions from the rental car’s GPS to the address on Sarah Ann Gleason’s driver’s license. The trail led them through the small Victorian sea village and then out into a more rural area of large and isolated properties. Gleason’s house was a small clapboard house that failed to keep the nearby town’s Victorian theme. The detective and the prosecutor stood on the porch and knocked but got no response.
    “Maybe she’s at work or something,” McPherson said.
    “Could be.”
    “We could go back into town and get rooms, then come back after five.”
    Bosch checked his watch. He realized that school was just over and Maddie was probably heading home with Sue Bambrough. He guessed that his daughter was giving the assistant principal the silent treatment.
    He stepped off the porch and started walking toward the corner of the house.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To check the back. Hold on.”
    But as soon as Bosch turned the corner he could see that a hundred yards beyond the house there was another structure. It was a windowless barn or garage. What stood out was that it had a chimney. He could see heat waves but no smoke rising from the two black pipes that extended over the roofline. There were two cars and a van parked in front of the closed garage doors.
    Bosch stood there watching for so long that McPherson finally came around the corner as well.
    “What’s taking—?”
    Bosch held up his hand to silence her, then pointed toward the outbuilding.
    “What is it?” McPherson whispered.
    Before Bosch could answer, one of the garage doors slid open a few feet and a figure stepped out. It looked like a young man or a teenager. He was wearing a full-length black apron over his clothes. He took off heavy elbow-length gloves so he could light a cigarette.
    “Shit,” McPherson whispered, answering her own question.
    Bosch stepped back to the corner of the house to use it as a blind. He pulled McPherson with him.
    “All her arrests—her drug of choice was meth,” he whispered.
    “Great,” McPherson whispered back. “Our main witness is a meth cook.”
    The young smoker turned when apparently called from within the barn. He threw down his cigarette, stepped on it, and went back inside. He yanked the door closed behind him but it slid to a stop six inches before closing.
    “Let’s go,” Bosch said.
    He started to move but McPherson put her hand on his arm.
    “Wait, what are you talking about? We need to call Port Townsend police and get some backup, don’t we?”
    Bosch looked at her a moment without responding.
    “I saw the police station when we went through town,” McPherson said, as if to assure him that backup was waiting and willing.
    “If we call for backup