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driving music and he turned it up.
    The music helped Bosch smooth out his thoughts. He realized the case was shifting. The feds, at least, were chasing the missing cesium instead of the killers. There was a subtle difference there that Bosch thought was important. He knew that he needed to keep his focus on the overlook and not lose sight at any time of the fact that this was a murder investigation.
    “Find the killers, you find the cesium,” he said out loud.
    When he got downtown he took the Los Angeles Street exit and parked in the front lot at police headquarters. At this hour nobody would care that he wasn’t a VIP or a member of command staff.
    Parker Center was on its last legs. For nearly a decade a new police headquarters had been approved for construction but because of repeated budgetary and political delays the project had only inched toward realization. In the meantime, little had been done to keep the current headquarters from sliding into decrepitude. Now the new building was under way but it was an estimated four years from completion. Many who worked in Parker Center wondered if it could last that long.
    The RHD squad room on the third floor was deserted when Bosch got there. He opened his cell phone and called his partner.
    “Where are you?”
    “Hey, Harry. I’m at SID. I’m getting what I can so I can start putting the murder book together. Are you in the office?”
    “I just got here. Where’d you put the wit?”
    “I’ve got him cooking in room two. You want to start with him?”
    “Might be good to hit him with somebody he hasn’t seen before. Somebody older.”
    It was a delicate suggestion. The potential witness was Ferras’s find. Bosch wouldn’t move in on him without his partner’s at least tacit approval. But the situation dictated that someone with Bosch’s experience would be better conducting such an important interview.
    “Have at him, Harry. When I get back I’ll watch in the media room. If you need me to come in, just give me the signal.”
    “Right.”
    “I made fresh coffee in the captain’s office if you want it.”
    “Good. I need it. But first tell me about the witness.”
    “His name is Jesse Mitford. From Halifax. He’s kind of a drifter. He told me he hitchhiked down here and has been staying in shelters and sometimes up in the hills-when it’s warm enough. That’s about it.”
    It was pretty thin but it was a start.
    “Maybe he was going to sleep up there in Madonna’s courtyard. That’s why he didn’t split.”
    “I didn’t think about that, Harry. You might be right.”
    “I’ll be sure to ask him.”
    Bosch ended the call, got his coffee mug out of his desk drawer and headed to the RHD captain’s office. There was an anteroom where the secretary’s desk was located as well as a table with a coffeemaker. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee hit Bosch as he entered and that alone almost gave him the caffeine charge he needed. He poured a cup, dropped a buck in the basket and then headed back to his desk.
    The squad room was designed with long rows of facing desks so that partners sat across from each other. The design afforded no personal or professional privacy. Most of the other detective bureaus in the city had gone to cubicles with sound and privacy walls but at Parker Center no money was spent on improvements because of the impending demolition.
    Since Bosch and Ferras were the newest additions to the squad their desk tandem was located at the end of a line in a windowless corner where the air circulation was bad and they would be furthest from the exit in the case of an emergency like an earthquake.
    Bosch’s work space was neat and clean, just as he had left it. He noticed a backpack and a plastic evidence bag on his partner’s desk across from him. He reached over and grabbed the backpack first. He opened it and found it contained mostly clothing and other personal items belonging to the potential witness. There was a book called
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