“He’s not here. I’m the only one here.”

“All right, when was the last time any of these six men were here taking photographs?”

“I’ll have to check the books.”

He moved down the counter and opened a drawer. From it he took a large accounts book and opened it. The book appeared to list rentals of studio space by date, time and photographer. Reineke ran his finger backward over the columns and finally stopped.

“He was here last Friday,” he said. “Shot for an hour.”

“He? Which one?”

Reineke looked back down at the book.

“That would have been Stephen Jepson.”

There was something off about the conversation with Reineke. It was like they were missing each other.

“So how would that have worked?” Bosch asked. “He just came in and said he wanted some space to shoot?”

“Yeah, like that. Or he might’ve called first to make sure we weren’t booked up. Sometimes that happens.”

“Did he call?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Can we go back and look at the studio space?”

“Sure. We’re empty right now. I’ve got a three o’clock and then a four.”

They went around the counter and through a door into the loft space. There were three different photo setup areas with light stands and pull-down backgrounds. There were a few pieces of furniture to use as props. There were wires running across the ceiling and black curtains that would allow the different photo areas to be partitioned for privacy. Bosch saw the brick wall from the photos running the length of the space. He guessed that Stephen Jepson’s session on Friday had been with Lizbeth Grayson.

Bosch was staring at the wall when he remembered something that had been wrong about the conversation with Reineke. He turned and looked at the young script reader.

“Why did you ask if we were with Internal Affairs?”

Reineke stuck out his lower lip and shook his head as he looked over at the doorway and then back to the counter.