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“How’s it looking?” he asked, coming into the cage.

“I’m just printing stuff out,” Bosch said. “I’ll read it all later when I get home.”

“It would be better if you and the printouts stayed here.”

“Are you telling me that’s how I have to do this?”

“No, I’m just covering my own ass.”

“Okay, then it’s covered.”

As Haller stood behind him, Bosch printed another document.

“What is significant about April second, 1965?” Haller asked.

“It’s when they found him dead,” Bosch said.

“We’re talking about Chops?”

“Charlie Lamb, yes.”

“Is this a good thing for you to be doing? I mean, delving into your own past like this?”

“I started talking to someone about it as soon as you filed the lawsuit. I’m fine.”

“Hope so. Did you think about the money like I asked you to?”

“I did and I changed my mind. I want to donate it.”

“Okay. Where’s it going?”

“Hope in a Suitcase.”

“What’s that?”

“An organization that gives suitcases full of clothes and stuff to kids going into the foster system. Most kids don’t have anything when they go in.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll set it up. You want each annual payment to go there?”

“I do. In the name of Charles Lamb.”

“Got it. They’re a five-oh-one charity, right?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Then at least you’ll get a tax credit.”

“Don’t need it. I don’t make any money.”

The last printout slid into the tray. Bosch got up, removed the stack, then turned to Haller.

“I’m going to go,” he said. “Thanks for this.”

“De nada,” Haller said. “Just don’t let those printouts get out into the world, okay? The judge will not be happy if he gets wind of that.”

“Don’t worry, they won’t.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know when I set things up with the charity.”