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“Yeah, that’s too bad. But everything we did, everything we knew about the murder, is in the book. I got nothing to add. Goodbye.”
“Don’t hang up.”
“I can’t help you, Bosch.”
“You don’t know that. Not until you hear me out. There’s another murder.”
Dubose said nothing and Bosch waited.
“When?” Dubose finally said.
“It was eleven years before, actually,” Bosch said. “We just connected it through DNA.”
“Where?”
“Hollywood Division. The foothills, like Wilson.”
“Black girl?”
“White. Does that make a difference?”
“No, I was just trying to get the details.”
“Did you think race had something to do with Wilson’s murder?”
“Not that we knew.”
“Did it play a part in the investigation?”
“What are you saying, Bosch?”
“Nothing. I’m just asking questions. Tell me something about the investigation that’s not in the murder book.”
“There’s nothing.”
“There always is. Reports not written, dead ends not explained. Why didn’t you run with the blood in the urine?”
“The what?”
“You heard me. You got the DNA off blood in the urine. It meant there was disease but there’s nothing in the book about a follow-up.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? What were we supposed to do? That could have meant anything. A solid punch in the gut will put blood in your piss. What, we were supposed to go to every hospital and dialysis clinic in the city and say, ‘Give us a list of your patients’? Fuck you, Bosch. We did the due diligence on the case and—”
“Nelson Hastings. That name ever come up?”
“Nelson … who?”
“Hastings. The name’s not in the book. He was around thirty at the time, just out of the military. Does the name mean anything to you?”
“No, never heard of him.”
“Think you’d remember if he had come up?”
“If he came up, then his name would be in the book. We left nothing out. Are we done?”
“Yeah, sure, Dubose. We’re done.”
“Good.”
