He pointed to the mouth of the horn.

“In there. Wouldn’t surprise me if it came out of Servan’s shop on one of the earlier B and Es.”

Bosch pulled the felt buffing cloth out of the opening and looked inside. There was an inscription on the curved brass but he couldn’t read it. He walked over to the window and angled the instrument so sunlight flooded into the mouth. He bent close and turned the instrument so he could read it.

CALUMET INSTRUMENTS

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

CUSTOM MADE FOR QUENTIN MCKINZIE, 1963

“THE SWEET SPOT”

Bosch read it again and then a third time. His temples suddenly felt as if someone had pressed hot quarters against them. A flash memory filled his thoughts. A musician under the canopy set up on the deck of the ship. The soldiers crowded close. Those in wheelchairs, the men missing limbs, at the front. The man playing the sax, bending up and down and in and out like Sugar Ray Robinson coming from the corner of the ring. The music beautiful and agile, lighting him up. The sound better than anything he had ever heard. The goddamn light at the end of all his tunnels.

“Jesus, Harry, what’s it say?”

Bosch looked over at Braxton, the memory retreating into the darkness.

“What?”

“You look like you saw a ghost hidin’ in there. What’s it say?”

“Chicago. It was made in Chicago.”

“Calumet?”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m a burglary detective. It’s my job to know. Calumet is one of the big ones. Been around a long time. We might be able to trace it.”

Bosch nodded.

“You finished here?” he asked. “Let’s go.”

On the way back to the station Bosch let Braxton drive so that he could hold and study the saxophone.

“What’s something like this worth?” he asked after they were halfway to their destination.

“Depends. New, you’re talking in the thousands. To a pawnbroker probably a fne.probablew hundred.”