“Oh, you won’t need that,” Eckersly said. “Unless you want to use it to knock on the door.”

Bosch turned back to the car to put the club back.

“Come on, come on,” Eckersly said. “I didn’t tell you to put it back. I just said you wouldn’t need it.”

Bosch hustled to catch up to him on the flagstone walkway leading to the front door. He walked with both hands on his belt. He was still getting used to the weight and the awkward bulk of it. When he was in Vietnam his job had been to go into the tunnels. He’d kept his body profile as trim as possible. No equipment belt. He carried all of his equipment-a flashlight and a forty-five-in his hands.

Eckersly had sat out the war in a patrol car. He was eight years older than Bosch and had that many years on the job. He was taller and heavier than Bosch and carried the weight and bulk of his equipment belt with a practiced ease. He signaled to Bosch to knock on the front door, as if that took training. Bosch knocked three times with his fist.

“Like this,” Eckersly corrected.

He rapped sharply on the door.

“Police, Mrs. Wilkins, can you come to the door, please?”

His fist and voice had a certain authority. A tone. That was what he was trying to teach his rookie partner.

Bosch nodded. He understood the lesson. He looked around and saw that the windows were all closed even though it was a nice cool morning. Nobody answered the door.

“You smell that?” he asked Eckersly.

“Smell what?”

The one area where Bosch didn’t need any training from Eckersly was in the smell of death. He had spent two tours in the dead zone. In the tunnels the enemy put their dead into the walls. Death was always in the air.