KIZ RIDER WAS almost halfway through the murder book when Bosch got back with the fresh round of coffees. She took her cup directly out of his hand.

“Thanks. I need something to keep me awake.”

“What, you’re going to sit there and tell me that this is boring compared to pushing paper in the chief’s office?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just all the catching up, the reading. We’ve got to know this book inside and out. We’ve got to be alert for the possibilities.”

Bosch noticed she had a legal tablet next to the murder book and the top page was almost full of notes. He couldn’t read the notes but could see that most of the lines were followed by question marks.

“Besides,” she added, “I’m using different muscles now. Muscles I didn’t use on the sixth floor.”

“I get it,” he said. “All right if I start in behind you now?”

“Be my guest.”

She popped open the rings of the binder and pulled out the two-inch-thick sheaf of documents she had already read through. She handed them across to Bosch, who had sat down at his desk.

“You got an extra pad like that?” he asked. “I just have a little notebook.”

She sighed in an exaggerated way. Bosch knew it was all an act and that she was happy they were working together again. She had spent most of the last two years evaluating policy and troubleshooting for the new chief. It wasn’t the real cop work that she was best at. This was.

She slid a pad across the desk to him.

“You need a pen, too?”

“No, I think I can handle that.”

He put the documents down in front of him and started reading. He was ready to go and he didn’t need the coffee to stay charged.