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“Nothing comes to mind?” Bosch pressed. “I’m talking something substantial. My guy put four hundred thousand into it and lost it.”
“Tell you what, the guy you should talk to is Tommy over at the Chart Room.”
“The Chart Room. That’s a bar?”
“At the Pier House.”
“The Pier House?”
“You don’t know shit, do you, LAPD? It’s a hotel at the end of Duval. I think you gotta stay there to get into the Chart Room these days. Place was a dive back in the day. Now they keep the riffraff out.”
“And Tommy?”
“He’s been slinging booze there forty years plus. And he knows the local bar trade better than anybody in this building.”
Bosch nodded. He then raised his sport coat up with one hand, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a document he had copied from the Gallagher Family murder book. He handed it to Osborne, who unfolded it. It was a BOLO flyer. At the top it had a California driver’s license photo of Finbar McShane. Below it were four smaller copies of the photo that had been altered by a police artist to show four possible new looks that McShane could have adopted after fleeing. In the altered photos, McShane alternately had a full beard, a goatee, long hair, or a shaved head. Bosch had put out the BOLO on McShane shortly after originally being assigned the case. That made the photos almost eight years old and of questionable value. But it was all he had to offer.
“This your guy, huh?” Osborne said.
“Yeah,” Bosch said. “Recognize him? Seen him around?”
“Can’t say I have. How old is that BOLO?”
“About eight years. He’d be forty-four now.”
“That’s a long time ago. They couldn’t come up with new stuff?”
“They’re working on it. How would you feel about showing that at roll call? See if any of your street people have seen him.”
“I guess I could do that. It’s a long shot, though.”
“I would appreciate it anyway.”
Osborne grabbed a Post-it pad and put it down in front of Bosch.
“Write your cell number down, and I’ll call you if I come up with anything.”
“I don’t have a phone. I lost it and need to buy one today. I can also call you tomorrow from the hotel.”
Osborne made a face as if to ask, who doesn’t have a cell phone?
“What hotel?” he asked instead.
“I’m going to see if they have a room at the Pier House, I guess.”
“LAPD must have a nice hotel allowance. That place’ll run you at least five hundred a night this time of year.”
Bosch nodded.
“Thanks for your help,” he said. “And the roll call.”
“Not a problem,” Osborne said. “You sure you’re okay, LAPD?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. You seem kind of shaky there.”
“It’s the humidity. Not used to it.”
