“Sheherazade,” he said.

“What’s that, Harry?” Edgar asked.

“The music. It’s called Sheherazade. Ever heard it?”

“I’m not sure I’m hearing it now. All the echoes, man.”

Bosch snapped his fingers. Out of the blue a thought had pushed through. In his mind he saw the studio’s arched gate, the replica of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.

“That address on Melrose,” Bosch said. “That’s near Paramount. One of those feeder-fish studios right nearby. I think it’s Archway.”

“Yeah? I think you’re right.”

Rider walked up then.

“We got a flat on the way,” she said. “ETA is fifteen. I checked on SID and ME. Also on the way. SID has somebody just wrapped up a home invasion in Nichols Canyon, so they should be right over.”

“Good,” Bosch said. “Either of you go over the story with the swinging stick, yet?”

“Not since the preliminary,” Edgar said. “Not our type. Thought we’d leave him for the three.”

The unspoken meaning of this was that Edgar had sensed the racist animosity Powers radiated toward himself and Rider.

“Okay, I’ll take him,” Bosch said. “I want you two to finish the charting, then do another sweep of the immediate area. Take different areas this time.”

He realized he had just told them things he didn’t need to tell them.

“Sorry. You know what to do. All I’m saying is let’s take this one by the numbers. I’ve got a feeling it’s going eight by ten on us.”

“What about OCID?” Edgar asked.

“I told you, not yet.”

“Eight by ten?” Rider said, a confused expression on her face.

“Eight by ten case,” Edgar told her. “Celebrity case. Studio case. If that’s a hotshot from the industry in that trunk, somebody from Archway, we’re going to get some media on this. More than some. A dead guy in the trunk of his Rolls is news. A dead industry guy in the trunk of his Rolls is bigger news.”