Free Lost Light by Michael Connelly Page A

front door of the retirement home.
    “Four o’clock.”
    “We’ll be here.”
    I closed the phone and sat there unmoving for a long moment, working at the memory. It was there, just out of reach.
    I reopened the phone. I didn’t have my phone book with me, and numbers I once knew by heart had washed away in the past eight months like they had been written in sand on the beach. I called information and got the number for the Times newsroom. I then was connected to Keisha Russell. She remembered me like I had never left the department. We’d had a good relationship. I fed a number of exclusives to her over the years and she returned the favor by helping me with clip searches and keeping stories in the paper when she could. The Angella Benton case had been one of the times she couldn’t.
    “Harry Bosch,” she said. “How are you?”
    I noticed that her Jamaican accent was now almost completely gone. I missed it. I wondered if that was intentional or just the product of living ten years in the so-called melting pot.
    “I’m fine. You still on the beat?”
    “Of course. Some things never change.”
    She had once told me that the cop beat was an entry-level position in journalism but that she never wanted to leave it. She thought moving up to cover city hall or elections or almost anything else would be terminally boring compared with writing stories about life and death and crime and consequences. She was good and thorough and accurate. So much so she had been invited to my retirement party. It was a rarity for an outsider of any ilk, especially a journalist, to earn such an invitation.
    “Unlike you, Harry Bosch. You, I thought, would always be there in Hollywood Division. Almost a year later now and I still can’t believe it. You know, I called your number out of habit on a story a few months ago and a strange voice answered and I just had to hang up.”
    “Who was it?”
    “Perkins. They moved him over from autos.”
    I hadn’t kept up. I didn’t know who had taken my slot. Perkins was good but not good enough. But I didn’t tell Russell that.
    “So what’s up with you, mon?”
    Every now and then she would turn on the accent and the patter. It was her way of making a transition, getting to the point.
    “Sounds like you’re busy.”
    “A bit.”
    “Then I won’t bother you.”
    “No, no, no. No bother. What can I do for you, Harry? You’re not working a case are you? Have you gone private?”
    “Nothing like that. I was just curious about something that’s all. It can wait. I’ll check you later, Keisha.”
    “Harry, wait!”
    “You sure?”
    “I am not too busy for an old friend, you know? What are you curious about?”
    “I was just wondering, remember a while back there was an FBI agent, a woman, who disappeared? I think it was in the Valley. She was last seen driving home from -”
    “Martha Gessler.”
    The name brought it all back. Now I remembered.
    “Yeah, that’s it. Whatever happened with her, do you know?”
    “As far as I know she’s still missing in action, presumed dead probably.”
    “There hasn’t been anything about her lately? I mean, any stories?”
    “Nope, because I would’ve written them and I haven’t written about her in, oh, two years at least.”
    “Two years. Is that when it happened?”
    “No, more like three. I think I did a one-year-later story. An update. That was the last time I wrote about her. But thanks for the reminder. It may be time for another look.”
    “Hey, if you do that, hold off a few days, would you?”
    “So you are working on something, Harry.”
    “Sort of. I don’t know if it’s related to Martha Gessler or not. But give me till next week, okay?”
    “No problem if you come clean and talk to me then.”
    “Okay, give me a call. Meantime, could you pull the clips on her? I’d like to read what you wrote back then.”
    I knew they still called it pulling clips even though it was all on computer now and actual newspaper