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The word sounded alien in his mouth, as if spoken by someone else. There was an urgency in his own voice that Bosch didn't recognize. The simple hello he had whispered into the telephone was full of hope, almost desperation. But the voice that came back to him was not the one he needed to hear.

"Detective Bosch?"

For a moment Bosch felt foolish. He wondered if the caller had recognized the faltering of his voice.

"This is Lieutenant Michael Tulin. Is this Bosch?"

The name meant nothing to Bosch and his momentary concern about how he sounded was ripped away as an awful dread entered his mind.

"This is Bosch. What is it? What's wrong?"

"Hold please for Deputy Chief Irving."

"What is-- "

The caller clicked off and there was only silence. Bosch now remembered who Tulin was -- Irving's adjutant.

Bosch stood still and waited. He looked around the kitchen; only the dim oven light was on. With one hand he held the phone hard against his ear, the other he instinctively brought up to his stomach, where fear and dread were twisting together. He looked at the glowing numbers on the stove clock. It was almost two, five minutes past the last time he had looked at it. This isn't right, he thought as he waited. They don't do this by phone. They come to your door. They tell you this face-to-face.

Finally, Irving picked up on the other end of the line.

"Detective Bosch?"

"Where is she? What happened?"

Another moment of excruciating silence went by as Bosch waited. His eyes were closed now.

"Excuse me?"

"Just tell me, what happened to her? I mean... is she alive?"

"Detective, I'm not sure what it is you are talking about. I'm calling because I need to muster your team as soon as possible. I need you for a special assignment."

Bosch opened his eyes. He looked through the kitchen window into the dark canyon below his house. His eyes followed the slope of the hill down toward the freeway and then up again to the slash of Hollywood lights he could see through the cut of the Cahuenga Pass. He wondered if each light meant someone awake and waiting for someone who wasn't going to come. Bosch saw his own reflection in the window. He looked weary. He could make out the deep circles etched beneath his eyes, even in the dark glass.

"I have an assignment, Detective," Irving repeated impatiently. "Are you able to work or are you-- "

"I can work. I just was mixed up there for a moment."

"Well, I'm sorry if I woke you. But you should be used to it."

"Yes. It's no problem."

Bosch didn't tell him that he hadn't been awakened by the call. That he had been roaming around in his dark house waiting.

"Then get it going, Detective. We'll have coffee down here at the scene."

"What scene?"

"We'll talk about it when you get here. I don't want to delay this any further. Call your team. Have them come to Grand Street between Third and Fourth. The top of Angels Flight. Do you know where I'm talking about?"

"Bunker Hill? I don't-- "

"It will be explained when you get here. Seek me out when you are here. If I am at the bottom come down to me before you speak with anyone."

"What about Lieutenant Billets? She should-- "

"She will be informed about what is happening. We're wasting time. This is not a request. It is a command.

 

Bestselling author Michael Connelly brings back detective Harry Bosch in his most high-stakes, high-wire case ever: the murder of a celebrity lawyer, possibly by one of his fellow police officers.

"A first class detective story."

 

"Raises the hard-boiled detective novel to a new level . . . adding substance and depth to modern crime fiction."

 

"A Dirty Harry of our times."

 

Michael Connelly is the author of the bestselling series of Harry Bosch novels and the bestsellers Void Moon, Angels Flight, Blood Work, and The Poet. He lives in Los Angeles.

 

Angels Flight by Michael Connelly
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