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“Thank you.”
“And don’t be a stranger. We should get together with our girls one of these days.”
“That sounds good.”
6
WHEN BOSCH TOLD Haller he’d started talking to someone about MacLaren and the haunting memories he carried from his days there, he was slightly stretching the truth. He was indeed meeting regularly with a highly qualified therapist who knew his history as both a cop and an orphan. But it was no longer a professional relationship. Carmen Hinojos had worked for the LAPD’s Behavioral Sciences Unit, and on more than a few occasions she had counseled Bosch on a professional basis. Now she was retired and a widow, and Bosch was alone. They shared good meals at restaurants and good music at local clubs. Good music was, in fact, how this turn in their relationship had begun. Hinojos had gone alone to the Baked Potato one evening to see Tom Scott play the saxophone. She recognized Bosch sitting at the bar by himself and came over to say hello. Soon after, they were hitting the Vibrato, the Verve, and the Catalina regularly. Before long, they were spending nights at one or the other’s home. But they each maintained their private time, and sometimes days went by without the two of them speaking. Bosch wasn’t troubled by this. He wanted to move slowly. He didn’t want to risk ruining a good thing with any missteps.
After leaving Haller’s office, Bosch drove up to Studio City, parked, and slipped into a booth across from Hinojos at Art’s Deli on Ventura Boulevard. It was walking distance from her home on Laurelgrove.
“How are you, Harry?” she asked.
“Coming from a retired psychotherapist, that question always seems loaded,” Bosch said, smiling.
“I’m about as retired as you are. But you’re avoiding the question.”
“I’m doing good. How are you, Car?”
For several years, back when their relationship was strictly professional, Bosch had called her Dr. Hinojos. Now it was Carmen or Car, and he found it hard to get used to. She was almost ten years younger than him, but he considered her ten years smarter when it came to interpreting and understanding human behaviors. He had always found her attractive, even back when he’d sit across from her in a psych-eval situation. She wore her hair short. She always had. It was now naturally gray with streaks of her darker original color running through it. It reminded him of Joan Baez’s hair at the end of her touring days. Her skin was a light brown that contrasted with her deep brown eyes, which were usually behind black-framed glasses.
“I can’t complain,” she said. “No cane today?”
“I left it in the car,” Bosch said. “I think I’m about to retire it.”
“Good for you. How did it go with Mickey?”
“Fine, I guess. I mostly printed stuff. I’ll go through it later.”
“Stuff about Charles Lamb?”
“Yeah. Disciplinary reports mostly. I also got records of things that happened the day he died and the previous day so I can see what was going on in that place.”
“Once again: Are you sure you should be doing this? Is it necessary?”
Bosch didn’t answer, because their regular waitress came to the table and put a plate with half a turkey sandwich on it in front of Hinojos.
“Cup of soup, Harry?” she asked.
“Ah, make it a bowl, Stevie,” Bosch said. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing. And an iced tea.”
“Right.”
Stevie went away. Bosch looked at Hinojos.
“You ordered without me?” he asked.
“You’re never on time,” she said. “I didn’t know how long I’d be sitting here twiddling my thumbs, so I ordered in case you stood me up. You’re avoiding my question again.”
“Which was?”
“Why are you doing this at this point in your life?”
“What you’re asking is why I’m worried about something that happened sixty years ago when I’ve got so little time left?”
“You said it, not me.”
