Bosch stood for a moment on the sidewalk and studied the front of the pawnshop. It was between a porno emporium and a shop that offered private mailboxes. A steel security gate had been folded open-presumably by Servan that morning after he called the police. Bosch looked up at the sign on the front wall above the plateglass windows. He saw that the triangular formation of three balls-the international pawnshop emblem-had been modified to include a king’s crown on each ball.

“Cute,” Edgar said, looking up at the sign, too.

“Very,” Bosch said. “Let’s get this done.”

“Don’t worry about me, Har. I’m not going to hold things up. It’s Christmas Eve. I wanna wrap this thing up and get home early for a change.”

Bosch stepped in and moved through the front of the shop, past the bicycles and golfe="ize clubs and antiques and musical instruments, and reached the counter where Braxton and Servan waited.

Braxton, who had investigated the previous three burglaries at Three Kings, had gotten there first because Servan had his business card taped to the side of the telephone. When the shop owner came to work that morning and found the dead burglar behind the jewelry case, he didn’t dial 911. He dialed Braxton.

“Merry Christmas, Brax,” Bosch said. “What have we got?”

“Deck the halls, Harry,” Braxton said. “We’ve got one less burglar in the world. And that makes Christmas a good one for me already.”

Bosch nodded and looked at Servan, who was seated on a tall stool on the other side of the counter. He was about fifty with black hair thinning on the top. He had a lot of muscle that was going soft. He had no visible tattoos.

“This is Nikolai Servan,” Braxton said. “This is his store.”

Bosch reached a hand across the counter to shake Servan’s hand. The Russian came off the stool and shook hands firmly.

“Mr. Servan, I’m Detective Bosch. This is Detective Edgar.”