He leafed through it, skimming the stories, hearing the voices. He found the old lady who was drowned in her bathtub. It was never solved. He moved on, through 1973 and 1974, then he went through the book containing 1966, ’67 and ’68. He read about Charles Manson and Robert Kennedy. He read about people whose names he had never heard or known. Names that were taken away from them along with everything else they’d had or would ever have.

As he read through the catalogs of the city’s horrors, Bosch felt a familiar power begin to take hold of him and move in his veins again. Only an hour back on the job and he was already chasing a killer. It didn’t matter how long ago the blood had fallen. There was a killer in the wind and Bosch was coming. Like the prodigal son returning, he knew he was back in his place now. He was baptized again in the waters of the one true church. The church of the blue religion. And he knew that he would find his salvation in those who were long lost, that he would find it in these musty bibles where the dead lined up in columns and there were ghosts on every page.

“Harry Bosch!”

Jarred by the intrusion, Bosch slammed the book closed and looked up. Captain Gabe Norona was standing in the doorway of the inner office.

“Captain.”

“Welcome back!”

He came forward and vigorously shook Bosch’s hand.

“Good to be back.”

“I see they already have you doin’ your homework.”

Bosch nodded.

“Just sort of getting acquainted with it.”

“New hope for the dead. Harry Bosch is on the case again.”

Bosch didn’t say anything. He didn’t know if the captain was being sarcastic or not.

“It’s the name of a book I read once,” Norona said.

“Oh.”

“Well, good luck to you. Get out there and lock ’em up.”

“That’s the plan.”

The captain shook his hand again and then disappeared back into his office and closed the door.