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“I guess you learn something new every day.”

“What was your job in the kitchen?”

“Dishwasher. They had a big industrial machine that needed two guys to operate it, one to put dishes on the racks, one to take them off on the other side. It was like a conveyor belt.”

“And you were there when they were cooking the meals?”

“Yes.”

“Then bring me back the smell of MacLaren and I’ll ask Mr. Bishop your questions. Can you do that, Mr. Bosch?”

“I can try.”

11

THERE WAS A time when Bosch believed he could open any door with his set of custom-made lockpicks. He had the skill for it as well as a set of homemade picks courtesy of a burglar he had arrested for the murder of a homeowner the burglar hadn’t expected to be home. But these days he didn’t trust the steadiness of his hands, and he didn’t want to be fumbling with the picks, trying to open a padlock on a public street, even under the cover of night. Instead, he brought an industrial-size bolt cutter with him back to MacLaren. It had been part of the search-warrant kit he had carried in the trunk of his car when he also carried a badge. Over the years he’d used the bolt cutter to open many storage lockers and sheds, places where killers thought they had successfully hidden evidence of their crimes.

After doing two complete drives around the MacLaren complex, during which he saw no signs of cameras or on-site security, Bosch parked a block away and carried the bolt cutter under his black windbreaker. Without hesitation, he approached the auto gate he had observed earlier and cut through a link in the heavy chain that secured both sides of the swinging gate. He quickly stepped in, closed the gate, then arranged the chain so that it appeared intact.

He turned to look at the place where he had spent some of the most important years of his youth. There were no lights on anywhere. The structure rose two stories in front of him, a black silhouette against a dark sky. He headed toward the front doors, pulling a mini-light from his windbreaker pocket.

There was a DO NOT ENTER sign taped to the wall to the left of the double doors. The upper half of each door was sectioned into nine glass panes, likely part of a design flourish dating back to when the building was a polio hospital. The lower left pane on the right door was missing and had been replaced with an equal-size piece of cardboard cut from a DO NOT ENTER sign. Bosch easily punched the cardboard out of its frame, reached his arm in and down, moved his hand over the interior surface of the door, found a dead bolt, and turned it.

He pulled his arm out and pushed the door open. He took one step over the threshold and froze. He never thought he’d ever set foot in this place again. A variety of emotions descended on him — anger, fear, sadness, and resolve. He didn’t want to take another step into the memories of this place. But he knew he must.

Bosch steeled himself and walked into the high-ceilinged room that was once the reception area. It was also the place where the children of unfit parents had their supervised visits with those they had been taken away from. The kids at MacLaren, the wards of the state, called it the crying room.

Bosch recalled several times in his first year at MacLaren when his mother came and they huddled in a corner of this room. She promised each time that she was going to get him out. She brought him things like snacks and clothes and a transistor radio for listening to the Dodgers. But then she was gone, taken from him by a killer, and MacLaren was all he had left.

The memories were coming fast and furious, freezing Bosch in his tracks. Finally he regained his purpose and headed across the room. There was debris scattered over the Spanish tiles. Discarded cardboard boxes, trash cans, and black plastic bags full of construction waste. Scaffolds ran along two walls. It was clear that the structure was being stripped of any useful or valuable material before the entire place was demolished. Soon, there would be no remnant of MacLaren. No reminder of the children who had been abused and abandoned, betrayed by parents and all those charged with their care.

He turned into a hallway that he knew from memory led to the stairs to the upper floor. As he cast his light forward he could see that the banister was gone, and the hard rubber treads of the steps up to the mid-landing had been stripped out as well. He came to the small wooden door that opened to the storage space under the landing.

The hollow.

The brass door handle and slide bolt were gone. Bosch crouched down at the door, trying to keep his weight off his new knee. He hesitated, but only for a moment. He edged his fingers into the jamb and was able to pull the door open. Its hinges creaked, and Bosch cut the darkness inside with his light.

He was immediately startled by movement in the darkness, and his light caught the face of a man. Bosch caught his breath and involuntarily jerked backward. He lost his balance and tumbled into the hallway as he heard a shriek come from the hollow. His flashlight left his hand and skittered across the tile, its light going dead. Bosch’s other hand instinctively went to his hip but there was no gun there. He had left it behind, knowing that should something go wrong during the break-in, carrying a firearm would double the charges and potential penalty.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Bosch said quickly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He held his hands up even though it was too dark in the hallway to see them. There was no answer from the hollow. Bosch got up and crawled in the direction he had heard the flashlight go. He swept his hands across the tiles until he finally found the light. He switched it on and focused it on the door to the hollow. A voice came from within.

“What do you want?”

“Uh, I didn’t know you were in there. You scared me, man.”

Bosch tried to sound as unthreatening as he could, considering the adrenaline spike that was a long way from subsiding.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Why do you want my name?” the man said.

“I don’t know. I guess so we can talk. My name is Harry.”

“Walker.”

“Walker? Is that your first or last name?”