“There is no crime scene,” Bosch said. “We’re taking Louis here back to the station to look at photos.”

“That’s weird.”

“What is?”

“I just passed Mark Baron, the crime scene guy, coming out of the elevator. He was in a hurry. I thought he was going to get his camera.”

They found police photographer Mark Baron in his apartment in West Hollywood. The door was unlocked and open two inches. Bosch called his name and then entered. Edgar and Rider were with him.

After overhearing Reineke tell Bosch and Edgar about the police photographer who used phony names to take Hollywood headshots of young women, Baron had rushed home, gone into the bedroom and gotten the gun he kept in a shoebox under his bed. He sat on the edge of the bed and put the muzzle into the fleshy spot under his chin. He pulled the trigger and blew the top of his head off.

Bosch didn’t look too long at the body of the dead photographer. Instead his eyes were drawn to the walls of the bedroom. Three of the four were covered floor to ceiling with collages of crime scene photos. All were of dead women. Next to each photo of death was a photo of life. The same woman alive and posing for him.

“Oh my God,” Rider murmured. “How long was he doing this?”

Bosch scanned the room and all of the photos of all of the different women. He didn’t want to guess.

“I better call this in to the captain,” Edgar said.

He left the room. Bosch continued to look. Finally, he found the headshot photo of Lizbeth Grayson on the wall. A photo of her lying dead on the bed was taped to the wall next to it.

Bosch wondered which of the photos Baron had prized the most. Dead or alive?

“I better call my office and tell them where I’m at,” Rider said.

Bosch nodded his approval. She left the room then and only Bosch remained.

“Do you still want to be a detective?” he asked, though he knew she was gone.