With his foot he moved a stack of boxes away from the wall and sat down on them. He looked old and tired to Bosch but then he had looked that way twelve years before when Bosch had gone to work for him. Garwood didn’t raise any particular feelings in Bosch. He had been the aloof sort of supervisor. Didn’t socialize with the squad after hours, didn’t spend much time out of his office and in the bullpen. At the time, Bosch thought maybe that was good. It didn’t engender a lot of loyalty from Garwood’s people, but it didn’t create any enmity either. Maybe that was how Garwood had lasted in the spot for so long.

“Well, it looks like we really got our tit in the wringer this time,” Garwood said. He then looked at Rider and added, “Excuse the saying, Detective.”

Bosch’s pager sounded and he quickly pulled it off his belt, disengaged the beep and looked at the number. It was not his own number as he had hoped it would be. He recognized it as the home number of Lieutenant Grace Billets. She probably wanted to know what was going on. If Irving had been as circumspect with her as he had been with Bosch on the phone, then she knew next to nothing.

“Important?” Garwood asked.

“I’ll take care of it later. You want to talk in here or should we go out to the train?”

“Let me tell you what we have first. Then it’s your scene to do with what you want.”

Garwood reached into the pocket of his coat, took out a softpack of Marlboros and began opening it.

“I thought you asked me for a smoke,” Bosch said.

“I did. This is my emergency pack. I’m not supposed to open it.”

It made little sense to Bosch. He watched as Garwood lit a cigarette and then offered the pack to Bosch. Harry shook his head. He put his hands in his pockets to make sure he wouldn’t take one.

“This going to bother you?” Garwood asked, holding up the cigarette, a taunting smile on his face.

“Not me, Cap. My lungs are probably already shot. But these guys…”