The house where Tracey Blitzstein had lived was one of the canal houses. As he approached the glowing lights set up by forensics around a black hardtop Mustang, a woman stepped away from the gathering and approached him. She wore navy slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. She had a badge clipped to her belt and introduced herself as Kim Gunn. Bosch handed her the extra coffee he had brought and she was almost gleeful about receiving it. She seemed very young to be a homicide detective, even in a divisional squad. This told Bosch that she was good at it or politically connected-or both.

“You’ve got to be a cop’s kid,” Bosch said.

“Why’s that?”

“I was told your full name is Kimber Gunn. Only a cop would name a kid that.”

She smiled and nodded. Kimber was the name of a company that manufactured firearms, in particular the tactical pistols used by specialty squads in law enforcement.

“You got me,” she said. “My father was in LAPD SWAT in the seventies. But I got it better than he did. His name is Tommy Gunn.”

Bosch nodded. He remembered the name from when he first came on the department and was in patrol.

“I heard of him back then. I didn’t know him, though.”

“Well, I’ve heard of you. So I guess that makes us even.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“From my friend Kiz Rider. We go to BPO meetings together.”

Bosch nodded. Rider was his former partner, now working out of the office of the chief of police. She was also recently elected president of the Black Peace Officers Association, a group that monitored the racial equality of hiring and firing as well as promotions and demotions in the department.

“I miss working with her and I don’t say that about too many people,” Bosch said.

“Well, she says the same about you. You want to take a look at the crime scene now?”