Angels Flight (Harry Bosch Series #6) by Michael Connelly

From Barnes & Noble

The Barnes & Noble Review
January 1998

Fallen Angels

With Angels Flight, Michael Connelly, the New York Times bestselling author of Blood Work and The Poet, returns to the bread-and-butter character -- the tough, no-holds-barred LAPD detective Harry Bosch -- who has virtually catapulted Connelly to the top of the gritty, police-procedural-thriller heap. Loaded with electrifying sequences, intriguing "NYPD Blue"-like big-city politics and procedures, and a killer plot stacked with high-speed twists and turns that'll keep you guessing until its very end, Angels Flight is an intense and terrific read.

Although Angels Flight was my first Connelly experience, I guarantee that it will not be my last. This novel really impressed me. Set in Los Angeles, the town where high-profile trials such as the O. J. Simpson and Rodney King affairs have captivated and scarred the nation in the '90s, Angels Flight serves up a compelling and highly sensitive double-murder investigation that has L.A.'s disgruntled black community setting its sights on the LAPD. When a controversial black lawyer (à la Johnny Cochran), who has made an extremely lucrative career defending the rights of the city's slugs while prosecuting the beleaguered police force, is found murdered, the media immediately point their fingers at the LAPD, and rioting is once again in the air. Was it actually a cop with a killer vendetta? It's up to Harry Bosch to uncover the sick and shocking truth.

Howard Elias, a savior in the eyes of Los Angeles's black community, is a devil to the city's law-enforcement agencies. Notorious for fanning the fires of high-profile civil-rights cases in which cops are depicted as evil incarnate, out to keep the poor black man down, Elias sets fear and anger coursing through any cop's veins. Now, on the eve of an extremely volatile trial that has the police once again jammed between a rock and a hard place, Elias is dead, brutally shot on the deserted late-night Angels Flight train.

Nothing sits right for Harry Bosch and his team. First they're selected out of rotation to head up the Elias murder. Then they're forced to work with an internal affairs group that's headed by a "prick" named Chastain; on more than one occasion, Chastain has investigated Bosch for procedural wrongdoing. Then there's Deputy Chief Irving, who appears to be more interested in damage control than he is in uncovering the truth. Although the acrimony among the investigators is an inch thick at the start, they agree on one issue: A suspect -- or a patsy -- had better be named soon, or there's going to be some serious hell to pay.

Thus begins the whirlwind of action, intrigue, and blistering suspense that is forged so masterfully by the talented Connelly. The plot may sound straightforward, even clichéd, but the reader is in for a chilling surprise. Each page reveals another potential suspect, startling discovery, death, or seemingly unmovable obstacle or distraction. During one 30- or 40-page sequence, the reader is bounced around so much that the publisher should include a warning label alerting those prone to motion sickness to keep their Dramamine nearby. Take nothing at face value: Friends may be enemies; enemies may be friends. The plot really keeps you guessing. If you enjoy hard-boiled police procedurals or just expertly written roller-coaster rides of suspense, give Angels Flight a read. You won't be disappointed.

--Andrew LeCount

From the Publisher

The man most hated by the LAPD - a black lawyer who has made his name by bringing lawsuits alleging racism and brutality by police officers - has been found murdered on the eve of a high-profile trial. The list of suspects includes half the police force. And Harry Bosch is the detective chosen to lead the investigation.

The political dangers of the case are huge. If it's not investigated fairly, the public outcry could make the Rodney King riots look tame. But a full investigation will take Bosch into the ugliest corners of law enforcement.
To make matters worse, Bosch's wife, Eleanor, has disappeared. Bosch fears she has left him - or succumbed to her gambling addiction. He's not sure which would be worse.

Angels Flight reads in a white heat. It continues to up the ante of the series that is "raising the hard-boiled detective novel to a new level - adding substance and depth to modern crime fiction." (Boston Globe)

Over My Dead Body.com - Rick McMahan

...Harry’s life is in upheaval. For those of us who thought Harry’s marriage to Eleanor Wish would end his personal unhappiness, we were wrong. From the outset of Angels Flight, Eleanor is gone and Harry, as well as the reader, struggle with why she’s left. In the end, we are left, like Harry, wondering where Eleanor is and what will happen to Harry Bosch. Once again Michael Connelly has written an excellent tale.

New York Times Book Review - Marilyn Stasio

Bosch is a wonderful old-fashioned hero who isn't afraid to walk through the flames — and suffer the pain for the rest of us.

USA Today

Michael Connelly is one of those masters...who can keep driving the story forward in runaway locomotive style.

People Magazine - Pam Lambert

Although Angels rarely takes wing, it's still a flight well worth taking.

Philip Oakes

Exciting, authentic, grimly satisfying. -- Literary Review

Christoph Klock

You will turn pages as fast as you can. Thenwhen you finishyou will be a bit wiser about the human condition. If you have read earlier Harry Bosch novelsAngels Flight is a must-read now. If you have missed the earlier booksyou might want to start with The Black Echo and The Black Ice"keepers" available in paperback. —The Mystery Reader.com

Book Magazine

Connelly is often called the heir-apparent to Raymond Chandler....[He] brings a newsman's ear to the language of the streets...

Library Journal

A black lawyer famed for his antidiscrimination suits against the LAPD is murdered before a big trial, and guess who gets to investigate? Connelly's hotshot Harry Bosch, of course.

Talk Magazine

Conelly's latest thriller about Harry Bosch, the irascible and erusite homicide detedtive, was the most compelling crime book of the year.

Talk Magazine's 10 Best Books of 1999

Over My Dead Body.com - Rick McMahan

...Harry’s life is in upheaval. For those of us who thought Harry’s marriage to Eleanor Wish would end his personal unhappiness, we were wrong. From the outset of Angels Flight, Eleanor is gone and Harry, as well as the reader, struggle with why she’s left. In the end, we are left, like Harry, wondering where Eleanor is and what will happen to Harry Bosch. Once again Michael Connelly has written an excellent tale.

The Mystery Reader.com - Christoph Klock

You will turn pages as fast as you can. Then, when you finish, you will be a bit wiser about the human condition. If you have read earlier Harry Bosch novels, Angels Flight is a must-read now. If you have missed the earlier books, you might want to start with The Black Echo and The Black Ice, "keepers" available in paperback.

USA Today

Michael Connelly is one of those masters...who can keep driving the story forward in runaway locomotive style.

Product Details

• Table of Contents
• Interviews & Essays
• Read a Sample Chapter

Table of Contents

Interviews & Essays

Michael Connelly: Thank you.

Michael Connelly: My personal feeling is that it doesn't matter, but I know there are a lot of purists out there who think you must read them in order. I think the problem for reading them out of order would be minimal, because other than a few of the books, the stories do not connect at all.

Michael Connelly: I have plans to eventually revisit almost every character I have written about. At the moment I do not have a specific story for the characters in THE POET, but eventually I hope I will come up with a story that will allow me to revisit Jack McEvoy and Rachel Walling.

Michael Connelly: First of all, I like to take breaks from Harry Bosch in order to hopefully keep the character fresh. When I came up with the story for BLOOD WORK, I almost used Harry, but in the long run I decided to use a new character, because metaphorically speaking I think that Harry has a good heart, and I didn't want to write a story that needed him having a new one.

Michael Connelly: He is a mix of several real cops I have known as a reporter and fictional cops I have known as a reader.

Michael Connelly: I have the primary answers, but I don't start a book until I know what the final resolution will be -- who did it. Everything in between, I wing it as I am going.

Michael Connelly: Your guess is as good as mine. Eastwood optioned the story last year and hired an Academy Award-winning screenwriter to adapt it. That is where it stands right now. In that respect the mention in ANGELS FLIGHT is fantasy.

Michael Connelly: I try to treat Harry as a metaphor for a city. So oftentimes in the books, you will notice that when the city is coming apart, so too is Harry. The last time this was done in my books was THE LAST COYOTE, which was set in the wake of the big earthquake we had. In my mind, at least, Harry and his house were symbolic of the city.

Michael Connelly: That is a hard question to answer. I try to be as unique as I can. I can tell you whom I like to read, so probably if they like me, they will like these people. They include Lawrence Block, James Lee Burke, Jan Burke, Robert Crais -- to name just a few.

Michael Connelly: They meet in THE BLACK ECHO. They also connect again in TRUNK MUSIC.

Michael Connelly: My main rule is to write every single day, and it doesn't have to be a lot, but even if you are writing one paragraph a day you are at least thinking of the story, and that is the main thing, to keep your head in the story. I guess three primary influences would be: Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald, Joseph Wambaugh.

Michael Connelly: Obviously, I didn't follow the case too closely, but since I write at home most days, it was on the TV, and I would catch parts. The case doesn't influence me. As a former journalist in L.A., I was happy not to cover it. But the case obviously had an influence on the LAPD, and since I try to write accurately about the present-day police force, I try to take to take the influences of that case into my writing.

Michael Connelly: Well, essentially I am taking a break from Harry Bosch again, and when I do that I try to challenge myself with doing something new. This time out the challenge is twofold: one, writing about a female protagonist and two, the female protagonist is a criminal. In the past I have always written from the police point of view, and the challenge is to make a person on the wrong side of the wall an interesting and sympathetic character.

Michael Connelly: I think that ANGELS FLIGHT is my darkest work so far, and this in itself is a mystery to me, because it is not reflective of my own life. Becoming a father in the last couple years has made me the happiest I have been in my life, but here comes this very dark story, and I don't know why. As far as Irving goes, I have given him a lot of thought over the course of the books. In the other books he was more a caricature than a real character, so I have worked hard to swing him away from that and make him more real and more complex.

Michael Connelly: If you mean in my books, no. As a journalist I had discussions with several murderers. Luckily, they were all in jail when they called me. I always found it fascinating to talk to these people. Some of it rubbed off in my books.

Michael Connelly: I am not sure a whole lot of them read it. I think if I live this every day, the last thing I would want to do is read some amateur's take on it. But those I do hear from generally appreciate what I write.

Michael Connelly: What Eleanor has done is not exactly clear, and maybe it will become clearer in the next book. Remember, we see the story through Harry's eyes, and he is obviously confused about what is happening in his romantic life. As far as THE LAST COYOTE goes, there is no mention of a wife leaving Harry, because he wasn't married.

Michael Connelly: I can only answer that from my personal view. I do not think it has to be so graphic on the screen or the page. I prefer stories in both mediums to leave a lot to the imagination. Unfortunately, sometimes the imagination can make things seem worse then they are. For example, my book THE POET has almost no violence on the page, but a lot of it is suggested. When that book came out I got a lot of bad reaction from readers who complained it was too violent. And yet the reality of what is in the book is really little violence.

Michael Connelly: I think it would be hard to do research on racial tensions per se. I relied on my observations of living in L.A. and my experience as a reporter, particularly in being caught in the middle of the riots that occurred after the Rodney King trial. That was a very surrealistic experience that has stayed with me, and it was something that I wanted to attempt to capture in one of my books.

Michael Connelly: That is a good question. I would probably vote for Harry because I think he has the most dogged determination of the trio.

Michael Connelly: In the books when there is music playing, that is pretty much what I was listening to when I wrote that section. I like jazz, but I also like blues. You notice in BLOOD WORK the music is blues, not jazz.

Michael Connelly: First of all, whatever fulfillment I got from journalism I am still getting in what I do now. I am trying to accurately report on what life is like in contemporary Los Angeles. And just a note -- while I was part of the staff at the Los Angeles Times that won a Pulitzer for covering the riots in 1992, there are literally dozens and dozens of reporters involved, so I don't go around saying I am a Pulitzer winner. Good luck with fatherhood, Nedwick!

Michael Connelly: He might need some time to recover, but I think Harry will always have highs and lows because he is a searcher in his mission/job and in his personal life.

Michael Connelly: Not really. I have made the decision to sell my stories to Hollywood, and therefore I will be accepting of the results, good or bad. The truth is that by the time I am done writing one of these stories, I am pretty tired of it, and I don't want to prolong my involvement with it.

Michael Connelly: What time is it in Australia? Thanks. Police techniques change pretty rapidly. What I normally do is write a story using the procedures I think would be used. This comes from experience and common sense. I then will ask friends/advisers on the force to read sections involving their particular expertise and tell me what I have got wrong. I can then choose to fix it, but often I don't, because I am a slave to the drama of the story, not accuracy of procedures. Oftentimes, being deadly accurate can be deadly boring. I have to find the middle ground.

Michael Connelly: It is called VOID MOON, which is an astrological term for a time of bad luck. It is about a female "hot prowler," a burglar of occupied dwellings. She goes to L.A. and burglarizes a hotel room, and then the trouble starts. I haven't finished writing it yet, but it will probably be out sometime next year.

Michael Connelly: I try never to say never. I wrote about a child killer in THE POET, and then after becoming a father I said I would never write about that again. Yet here in ANGELS FLIGHT there is a child's murder. Though it is a small part of the book, it is still at its core. Why I did this, I don't know. That is one of the mysteries of writing. Perhaps we write about our worst nightmares to keep them at arm's length.

Michael Connelly: As far as new projects, I think the one I just outlined about challenging myself -- in what I consider new ways of writing -- is for the moment keeping me busy.

Michael Connelly: Yes. ANGELS FLIGHT is my favorite. I think writers routinely say their current book is their favorite, but until this THE LAST COYOTE was my favorite.

Michael Connelly: I guess holding my first book, THE BLACK ECHO, making the New York Times bestseller list for BLOOD WORK, and meeting President Clinton are big highlights, but probably more fulfilling is some of the feedback I have gotten from readers, which is always something to cherish. Booksellers too.

Michael Connelly: The thriller is easy -- RED DRAGON by Thomas Harris. It is probably the most influential thriller in the last quarter century in my opinion. I like different writers for different reasons. Lawrence Block makes the stories flow so easily for the reader. I really admire George P. Pelecanos because of his research and detail. I thought his book THE SWEET FOREVER was one of the best I have read in a long time. A new writer I really admire is Barbara Serenella, whose book NO OFFENSE INTENDED I liked a lot. There are many others, and whenever I get asked a question like this I know I leave a lot out. I would be better off not answering!

Michael Connelly: I was just there in September on a book tour. I had a great time, but I am not sure when I will be able to get back.

Michael Connelly: Thanks for joining in tonight and reading the books. As I said before, that is the real highlight of what I do.

Read a Sample Chapter

The word sounded alien in his mouth, as if spoken by someone else. There was an urgency in his own voice that Bosch didn't recognize. The simple hello he had whispered into the telephone was full of hope, almost desperation. But the voice that came back to him was not the one he needed to hear.

"Detective Bosch?"

For a moment Bosch felt foolish. He wondered if the caller had recognized the faltering of his voice.

"This is Lieutenant Michael Tulin. Is this Bosch?"

The name meant nothing to Bosch and his momentary concern about how he sounded was ripped away as an awful dread stole quickly into his mind.

"This is Bosch. What is it? What's wrong?"

"Hold please for Deputy Chief Irving."

"What is--"

The caller clicked off and there was only silence. Bosch remembered who Tulin was now—Irving's adjutant. Bosch stood still and waited. He looked around the kitchen, only the dim oven light on. With one hand he held the phone hard against his ear, the other he instinctively brought up to his stomach, where fear and dread were twisting together. He looked at the glowing numbers on the stove clock. It was almost two, five minutes past the last time he had looked at it. This isn't right, he thought as he waited. They don't do this by phone. They come to your door. They tell you this face to face.

Finally, Irving picked up on the other end of the line.

"Detective Bosch?"

"Where is she? What happened?"

Another moment of excruciating silence went by as Bosch waited. His eyes were closed now.

"Excuse me?"

"Just tell me, what happened to her? I mean . . . is she alive?"

"Detective, I'm not sure what it is you are talking about. I'm calling because I need to muster your team as soon as possible. I need you for a special assignment."

Bosch opened his eyes. He looked through the kitchen window into the dark canyon below his house. His eyes followed the slope of the hill down toward the freeway and then up again to the slash of Hollywood lights he could see through the cut of the Cahuenga Pass. He wondered if each light was someone awake and waiting for something or someone that wasn't going to come. Bosch saw his own reflection in the window. He looked weary. He could make out the deep circles etched beneath his eyes, even in the dark glass.

"I have an assignment, Detective," Irving repeated impatiently. "Are you able to work or are you—"

"I can work. I just was mixed up there for a moment."

"Well, I'm sorry if I woke you. But you should be used to it."

"Yes. It's no problem."

Bosch didn't tell him that he hadn't been awakened by the call. That he had been roaming around in his dark house waiting.

"Then get it going, Detective. We'll have coffee down here at the scene."

"What scene?"

"We'll talk about it when you get here. I don't want to delay this any further. Call your team. Have them come to Grand Street between Third and Fourth. The top of Angels Flight. Do you know where I'm talking about?"

"Bunker Hill? I don't—"

"It will be explained when you get here. Seek me out when you are here. If I am at the bottom come down to me before you speak with anyone."

"What about Lieutenant Billets? She should—"

"She will be informed about what is happening. We're wasting time. This is not a request. It is a command. Get your people together and get down here. Am I making myself clear to you?"

"You're clear."

"Then I will be expecting you."

Irving hung up without waiting for a reply. Bosch stood with the phone still at his ear for a few moments, wondering what was going on. Angels Flight was the short inclined railroad that carried people up Bunker Hill in downtown—far outside the boundaries of the Hollywood Division homicide table. If Irving had a body down there at Angels Flight the investigation would at least initially fall under the jurisdiction of Central Division. If central detectives couldn't handle it because of caseload or personnel problems, or if the case was deemed too important or media sensitive for them, then it would be bumped to the bulls, the Robbery-Homicide Division. The fact that a deputy chief of police was involved in the case before dawn on a Saturday skewed things toward the latter possibility. The fact that he was calling Bosch and his team in instead of the RHD bulls was the puzzle. Whatever it was that Irving had working at Angels Flight didn't make sense.

Bosch glanced once more down into the dark canyon, pulled the phone away from his ear and clicked it off. He wished he had a cigarette but he had made it this far through the night without one. He wouldn't break now.

He turned his back and leaned on the counter.  He looked down at the phone in his hand, turned it back on and hit the speed dial button that would connect him with Kizmin Rider's apartment. He would call Jerry Edgar after he talked to her. Bosch felt a sense of relief come over him that he was reluctant to acknowledge. He might not yet know what awaited him at Angels Flight, but it would certainly take his thoughts away from Eleanor Wish.

Rider's alert voice answered after two rings.

"Kiz, it's Harry," he said. "We've got work."

Chapter Two

Bosch agreed to meet his two partners at the Hollywood Division station to pick up cars before they headed downtown to Angels Flight. On the way down the hill to the station he had punched in KFWB on his Jeep's radio and picked up a breaking news report on a homicide investigation underway at the site of the historical funicular railroad. The newsman on the scene reported that two bodies had been found inside one of the train cars and that several members of the Robbery-Homicide squad were on the scene. But that was the extent of the reporter's information as he also noted that the police had placed an unusually wide cordon of yellow tape around the crime scene, prohibiting him from getting a closer look. At the station Bosch communicated this bit of thin information to Edgar and Rider while they signed three slickbacks out of the motor pool.

"So it looks like we're gonna be playing sloppy seconds to RHD," Edgar concluded, showing his annoyance at being rousted from sleep to spend probably the whole weekend doing gopher work for the RHD bulls. "Our guts, their glory. And we aren't even on call this weekend. Why didn't Irving call out Rice's got-damned team if he needed a Hollywood team?"

Edgar had a point. Team One - Bosch, Edgar and Rider - wasn't even up on call rotation this weekend. If Irving followed proper call out procedure he would have called Terry Rice, who headed up Team Three, which was currently on top of the rotation. But Bosch already figured that Irving wasn't following any procedures, not if the deputy chief had called him directly before checking with his supervisor, Lt. Grace Billets.

"Well, Jerry," Bosch said, more than used to his partner's whining, "you'll probably get the chance to personally ask the deputy chief those questions in a little while."

"Yeah, right, I ask him one of those and I'll find my ass down in Harbor the next ten years. Fuck that."

"Hey, Harbor Division's an easy gig," Rider said, just to rag Edgar a bit. She knew Edgar lived in the Valley and that a transfer to Harbor Division would mean a miserable ninety-minute commute each way—the pure definition of Freeway Therapy, the brass's method of unofficially punishing malcontents and problem cops. "They only pull six, seven homicides a year down there."

"That's nice but count me the fuck out."

"Okay, okay," Bosch said. "Let's just get going and we'll worry about all of that stuff later. Don't get lost."    

Bosch took Hollywood Boulevard to the 101 and coasted down the freeway in minimal traffic to downtown. Halfway there he checked the mirror and saw his partners cruising in the lanes behind him. Even in the dark and with other traffic he could pick them out. He hated the new detective cars. They were painted black and white and looked exactly like patrol cruisers with the exception that they did not carry the emergency lights across the roof. It had been the former chief's idea to replace unmarked detective cars with the so-called slickbacks. The whole thing had been a scam perpetrated to fulfill his promises to put more cops on the street. By changing unmarked cars into clearly marked cars, he was giving the public the erroneous impression that there were more cops patrolling the streets. He also counted the detectives using slickbacks when he addressed community groups and proudly reported that he had increased the number of cops on the street by hundreds.

Meantime, detectives trying to do their jobs drove around like targets.  More than once Bosch and his team had sought to serve an arrest warrant or had attempted to quietly come into a neighborhood in the course of an investigation only to have their presence signaled by their own cars. It was stupid and dangerous but it was the chief's edict and it was carried out throughout the department's divisional detective bureaus, even after the chief was not asked back for a second five-year term. Bosch, like many of the department's detectives, hoped the new chief would soon order the detective cars back to normal. Meanwhile, he no longer drove the car assigned to him home from work. It had been a nice detective supervisor's perk having a take-home car but he didn't want the marked car sitting in front of his house. Not in L.A. You never knew what menace that could bring to your door.

They got to Grand Street by two-forty-five. As Bosch pulled to a stop he saw an unusually large number of police and related vehicles parked along the curb at California Plaza. He noted the crime scene and coroner's vans, several patrol cars and several more detective sedans—not the slickbacks, but the unmarked cars still used by the RHD bulls. While he waited for Rider and Edgar to pull up he opened his briefcase, took out the cellular phone and called his home. After five rings the machine picked up the call and he heard his own voice telling him to leave a message. He was about to click off but decided to leave a message.

"Eleanor, its me. I've got a call out . . . but page me or call me on the cell phone when you get in so I know you're okay . . . Um, okay, that's it. Bye - oh, it's about two-forty-five right now. Saturday morning. Bye."

Edgar and Rider had walked up to his door. He put the phone away and got out with his briefcase. Edgar, the tallest, held up the yellow crime scene tape and they crossed under, gave their names and badge numbers to a uniform officer with the crime scene attendance list, and then walked across California Plaza.

The plaza was the centerpiece of Bunker Hill, a stone courtyard formed by the conjoining of two marble office towers, a high-rise apartment building and the Modern Museum of Art. There was a huge fountain and reflecting pool at its center, though the pumps and lights were off at this hour, leaving the water still and black.

Past the fountain was the beaux-arts revival-styled station and wheelhouse at the top of Angels Flight. It was next to this small structure that most of the investigators and patrol officers milled about as if waiting for something. Bosch looked for the gleaming shaven skull that belonged to Deputy Chief Irving but didn't see it. He and his partners stepped into the crowd and moved toward the lone rail car sitting at the top of the tracks. Along the way he recognized many of the faces of Robbery-Homicide detectives. They were men he had worked with years earlier when he had been part of the elite squad. A few of them nodded to him or called him by name. Bosch saw Francis Sheehan, his former partner, standing off by himself, smoking a cigarette. Bosch broke from his partners and stepped over.

"Frankie," he said. "What's going on?"

"Harry, what are you doing here?"

"Got called out. Irving called us out."

"Shit. Sorry, partner, I wouldn't wish this one on my enemy."

"Why, what's going—"

"You better talk to the man first. He's putting the big blanket on this one."

Bosch hesitated. Sheehan looked worn down but Bosch hadn't seen him in months. He had no idea what had put the dark circles under his hound dog eyes or when they had been cut into his face. For a moment Bosch remembered the reflection of his own face that he had seen earlier.

"You okay, Francis?"

"Never better."

"Okay, I'll talk to you."

Bosch rejoined Edgar and Rider who were standing near the rail car. Edgar nodded slightly to Bosch's left.

 "Hey, Harry, you see that?" he said in a low voice. "That's Sustain Chastain and that bunch over there. What are those pricks doin' here?"

Bosch turned and saw the grouping of men from Internal Affairs.

"Got no idea," he said.

Chastain and Bosch locked eyes for a moment but Bosch didn't hold it. It wasn't worth the waste of energy to get worked up over just seeing the IAD man. Instead, he focused on trying to put the whole scene together. His curiosity level was at maximum. The number of RHD bulls hanging around, the IAD shines, a deputy chief on the scene—he had to find out what was going on.

With Edgar and Rider behind him in single file, Bosch worked his way to the rail car. Portable lights had been set up inside and the car was lit up like somebody's living room. Inside, two crime scene techs were at work. This told Bosch that he was quite late arriving at the scene. The crime scene techs didn't move in until after the coroner's techs had completed their initial procedures - declaring victims dead, photographing the bodies in situ, searching them for wounds, weapons and identification.

Bosch stepped to the rear of the car and looked through the open door. The technicians were at work around two bodies. A woman was sprawled on one of the stepped seats about midway through the car. She was wearing gray leggings and a white thigh-length T-shirt. A large flower of blood had blossomed on her chest where she had been hit dead center with a single bullet. Her head was snapped back against the sill of the window behind her seat. She had dark hair and features, her lineage obviously stretching somewhere south of the border. On the seat next to her body was a plastic bag filled with many items Bosch couldn't see. A folded newspaper protruded from the top of it.

On the steps near the rear door to the car was the facedown body of a black man wearing a dark gray suit. From his viewpoint Bosch could not see the man's face and only one wound was visible—a through and through gunshot wound at the center of the victim's right hand. Bosch knew it was what would later be called a defensive wound in the autopsy report. The man had held his hand up in a futile attempt to ward off gunfire. Bosch had seen it often enough over the years and it always made him think about the desperate actions people take at the end. Putting a hand up to stop a bullet was one of the most desperate.

Though the techs were stepping in and out of his line of sight, Bosch could look straight down through the inclined train car and down the track to Hill Street about three hundred feet below. A duplicate train car was down there at the bottom of the hill and Bosch could see more detectives milling about by the turnstiles and the closed doors of the Grand Central Market across the street.

Bosch had ridden the incline railroad as a kid and had studied how it worked. He still remembered. The two matching cars were counter-balanced. When one went up the side by side tracks the other went down, and vice versa. They passed each other at the midpoint. He remembered riding on Angels Flight long before Bunker Hill had been reborn as a slick business center of glass and marble towers, classy condominiums and apartments, museums and fountains referred to as water gardens. Back then the hill had been a place of once grand Victorian homes turned into tired looking rooming houses. Harry and his mother had taken Angels Flight up the hill to look for a place to live.

"Finally, Detective Bosch."

Bosch turned around. Deputy Chief Irving stood in the open door of the little station house.

"All of you," he said, signaling Bosch and his team inside.

They entered a cramped room dominated by the large old cable wheels that once moved the train cars up and down the incline. Bosch remembered reading that when Angels Flight was rehabilitated a few years earlier after a quarter century of disuse, the cables and wheels had been replaced with an electric system monitored by computer.

On one side of the wheel display was just enough room for a small lunch table with two folding chairs. On the other side was the computer for operating the trains, a stool for the operator and a stack of cardboard boxes, the top one open and showing stacks of pamphlets on the history of Angels Flight.

Standing against the far wall, in the shadow behind the old iron wheels, his arms folded and his craggy sun-reddened face looking down at the floor, was a man Bosch recognized. Bosch had once worked for Captain John Garwood, commander of the Robbery-Homicide Division. He knew by the look on his face that he was very put out about something. Garwood didn't look up at them and the three detectives said nothing.

Irving went to a telephone on the lunch table and picked up the loose handset. As he began talking he motioned to Bosch to close the door.

"Excuse me, sir," Irving said. "It was the team from Hollywood. They are all here and we are ready to proceed."

He listened for a few moments, said good-bye and hung up the phone. The reverence in his voice and his use of the word sir told Bosch that Irving had been talking to the chief of police. It was one more curiosity about the case.

"All right, then," Irving said, turning around and facing the three detectives. "I am sorry to roust you people, especially out of rotation. However, I have spoken with Lieutenant Billets and as of now you have been cut free of the Hollywood rotation until we get this handled."

"What exactly is this that we are handling?" Bosch asked.

"A delicate situation. The homicides of two citizens."

Bosch wished he would get to the point.

"Chief, I see enough RHD people around here to investigate the Bobby Kennedy case all over again," he said, glancing at Garwood. "And that's not to mention the IAD shines hovering around the edges. What exactly are we doing here? What do you want?"

"Simple," Irving said. "I am turning the investigation over to you. It is your case now, Detective Bosch. The Robbery-Homicide detectives will be withdrawing as soon as you people are brought up to speed. As you can see, you are coming in late. That's unfortunate but I think you will be able to overcome it. I know what you can do."

Bosch stared at him blankly for a long moment, then glanced at Garwood again. The captain had not moved and continued to stare at the floor. Bosch asked the only question that could bring understanding to this strange situation.

"That man and woman on the train car, who are they?"

Irving nodded.

"Were is probably the more correct word. Were. The woman's name was Catalina Perez. Who exactly she was and what she was doing on Angels Flight we do not know yet. It probably does not matter. It appears that she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But that will be for you to officially determine. Anyway, the man in there, he is different. That was Howard Elias."

"The lawyer?"

Irving nodded. Bosch heard Edgar draw in a breath and hold it.

"This is for real?"

"Unfortunately."

Bosch looked past Irving and through the ticket window. He could see into the train car. The techs were still at work, getting ready to shut off the lights so they could laser the inside of the car. His eyes fell to the hand with the bullet wound through it. Howard Elias. Bosch thought about all of the suspects there would be. Many of them standing around outside at that very moment, watching.

"Shit," Edgar said. "Don't suppose we could take a pass on this one, could we, Chief?"

"Watch your language, Detective," Irving snapped, the muscles of his jaw bulging as he grew angry. "That is not acceptable here."

"Look, Chief, all I'm sayin' is if you're looking for somebody to play department Uncle Tom, it ain't going to be - "

"That has nothing to do with this," Irving said, cutting him off. "Whether you like it or not, you have been assigned to this case. I expect each of you to do it professionally and thoroughly. Most of all, I expect results, as does the Chief of Police. Other matters mean nothing. Absolutely nothing."

After a brief silence, during which Irving's eyes went from Edgar to Rider and then to Bosch, the deputy chief continued.

"In this department there is only one race," he said. "Not black or white. Just the blue race."