Free Echo Park by Michael Connelly Page A

main field office in Westwood.
    “I know a place. I’ll drive and you can look at the files.”
    He walked back over and opened the door of his car. He had to grab the files off the passenger seat so she could get in. He then handed her the files and went around to the driver’s side. He tossed his newspaper onto the backseat.
    “Wow, this is so Steve McQueen,” she said of the Mustang. “What happened to the SUV?”
    Bosch shrugged.
    “Just needed a change.”
    He revved the engine to humor her and then pulled away from the curb. He went down to Sunset and turned toward Silver Lake. The route would take them through Echo Park on the way.
    “So what exactly do you want from me, Harry?”
    She opened the top file that was on her lap and started reading.
    “I want you to take a look and then tell me your impressions of this guy. I’m talking to him tomorrow and I want to have any edge I can get. I want to make sure that if anybody is manipulated, it’s him and not me.”
    “I’ve heard about this guy. He’s the Echo Park Butcher, right?”
    “Actually, they call him the Bagman.”
    “Got it.”
    “I have a previous connection to the case.”
    “Which is?”
    “Back in ’ninety-three I was working out of Hollywood Division. I caught a case involving a missing girl. Her name was Marie Gesto and she was never found. It was big at the time, a lot of media. This guy I’m going into the room with, Raynard Waits—he says that’s one of the cases he’ll trade us.”
    She looked over at him and then back down at the file.
    “Knowing how I have seen you take a case straight to heart, Harry, I wonder, then, if it is wise for you to be dealing with this man now.”
    “I’m fine. It’s still my case. And taking it straight to heart is the way of the true detective. The only way.”
    He glanced over at her in time to see her roll her eyes.
    “Spoken like the Zen master of Homicide. Where are we going?”
    “A place called Duffy’s in Silver Lake. We’ll be there in five minutes and you’ll love it. Just don’t start taking your bureau buddies there. That’ll ruin it.”
    “I promise.”
    “You still have the time?”
    “I told you, I didn’t take lunch. But I do need to go back to check out at some point.”
    “So are you working out of the federal courthouse?”
    She answered while continuing to scan and turn pages in the file.
    “No, we’re off campus.”
    “One of those secret federal locations, huh?”
    “You know the story. If I told you I’d have to kill you.”
    Bosch nodded at the joke.
    “That mean you can’t tell me what Tactical is?”
    “It’s nothing. Short for Tactical Intelligence. We’re gatherers. We analyze raw data we pull off the Internet, cell transmissions, satellite feeds. It’s actually quite boring.”
    “But is it legal?”
    “For now.”
    “Sounds like a terrorism gig.”
    “Except more often than not we end up feeding leads to the DEA. And last year we came up with more than thirty different Internet scams involving hurricane relief. Like I said, it’s raw data. It can lead anywhere.”
    “And you traded the wide-open spaces of South Dakota for downtown L.A.”
    “As far as the career choice goes, it was the right move. I don’t regret it. But I do miss some things about the Dakotas. Anyway, let me concentrate on this. You do want my take on it, right?”
    “Yes, sorry. Have at it.”
    He drove silently for the last few minutes and then pulled to a stop in front of the small storefront restaurant. He brought the newspaper in with him. She told him to order her what he was having. But when the waiter came and Bosch ordered an omelet she changed her mind and started scanning the menu.
    “I thought you said we were having lunch, not breakfast.”
    “I missed breakfast, too. And the omelets are good.”
    She ordered a turkey sandwich and handed back the menu.
    “My warning is that my take is going to be very superficial,” she said when they were left