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Without a badge to open doors and strike fear in the guilty, Bosch learns afresh how brutally indifferent the world can be, but with every conversation and every thread of evidence he senses a larger more ruthless presence than he has ever known before.
Only the money was real. L.A.P.D. detective Harry Bosch was on a movie set, asking questions about the murder of a young production assistant, when an armored car arrived with two million dollars cash for use in a heist scene. In a life-imitates-art firestorm, a gang of masked men converged on the delivery and robbed the armored car with guns blazing. Bosch got off a shot that struck one of the robbers as their van sped away, but the money was never recovered. And the young woman's murder was in the stack of unsolved-case files Bosch carried home the night he left the L.A.P.D.
Now Bosch moves full-bore back into that case, determined to find justice for the young woman. Without a badge to open doors and strike fear in the guilty, he learns afresh how brutally indifferent the world can be. But something draws him on, past humiliation and harassment. It's not just that the dead woman had no discernible link to the robbery. Nor is it his sympathy for the cops who took the case over, one of them killed on duty and the other paralyzed by a bullet in the same attack. With every conversation and every thread of evidence, Bosch senses a larger presence, an organization bigger than the movie studios and more ruthless than even the LAPD. The part of Bosch that will never back down finds as fatal an opponent as he's ever encountered - and there's no guarantee that Bosch will survive the showdown ahead.
CHAPTER 1
The last thing I expected was for Alexander Taylor to answer his own door. It belied everything I knew about Hollywood. A man with a billion-dollar box-office record answered the door for nobody. Instead, he would have a uniformed man posted full-time at his front door. And this doorman would only allow me entrance after carefully checking my identification and appointment. He would then hand me off to a butler or the first-floor maid, who would walk me the rest of the way in, footsteps falling as silent as snow as we went.
But there was none of that at the mansion on Bel-Air Crest Road. The driveway gate had been left open. And after I parked in the front turnaround circle and knocked on the door, it was the box-office champion himself who opened it and beckoned me into a home whose dimensions could have been copied directly from the international terminal at LAX.
Taylor was a large man. Over six feet and 250 pounds. He carried it well, though, with a full head ...
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