A Darkness More Than Night by Michael Connelly

televisions and saw that court was still in session though it was now past noon. The camera focused on a wide angle and he recognized Harry Bosch sitting with a man and a woman at the prosecution table. It did not look as though he was paying attention to the proceedings. A man McCaleb recognized stood at the lectern between the prosecution and defense tables. He was J. Reason Fowkkes, the lead defense attorney. At the table to his left sat the defendant, David Storey.
    McCaleb could not hear the audio feed but he knew that Fowkkes was not delivering his opening statement. He was looking up at the judge, not in the direction of the jury box. Most likely last-minute motions were being argued by the attorneys before openers began. The twin television screens switched to a new camera, this angle directly on the judge, who began speaking, apparently delivering his rulings. McCaleb noted the name plate in front of the judge’s bench. It said Superior Court Judge John A. Houghton.
    “Agent McCaleb?”
    McCaleb turned from the television to see a man he recognized but couldn’t immediately place standing next to him.
    “Just McCaleb. Terry McCaleb.”
    The man perceived his difficulty and held out his hand.
    “Jack McEvoy. I interviewed you once. It was pretty brief. It was about the Poet investigation.”
    “Oh, right, I remember now. That was a while back.”
    McCaleb shook his hand. He did remember McEvoy. He had become entwined in the Poet case and then wrote a book about it. McCaleb had had a very peripheral part in the case — when the investigation had shifted to Los Angeles. He never read McEvoy’s book but was sure he had not added anything to it and likely wasn’t mentioned in it.
    “I thought you were from Colorado,” he said, recalling that McEvoy had worked for one of the papers in Denver. “They sent you out to cover this?”
    McEvoy nodded.
    “Good memory. I was from there but I live out here now. I work freelance.”
    McCaleb nodded, wondering what else there was to say.
    “Who are you covering this for?”
    “I’ve been writing a weekly dispatch on it for the
New Times.
Do you read it?”
    McCaleb nodded. He was familiar with the
New Times.
It was a weekly tabloid with an anti-authority, muckraking stance. It appeared to subsist mostly on entertainment ads, ranging from movies to the escort services that filled its back pages. It was free and Buddy always seemed to leave issues lying around the boat. McCaleb looked at it from time to time but hadn’t noticed McEvoy’s name before.
    “I’m also doing a general wrap for
Vanity Fair,
” McEvoy said. “You know, a more discursive, dark-side-of-Hollywood piece. I’m thinking about another book, too. What brings you here? Are you . . . involved with this in some . . .”
    “Me, no. I was in the area and I have a friend involved. I was hoping I might be able to get a chance to say hello to him.”
    As he told the lie McCaleb looked away from the writer and back through the door to the televisions. The full courtroom camera angle was now being shown. It looked like Bosch was gathering things into a briefcase.
    “Harry Bosch?”
    McCaleb looked back at him.
    “Yeah, Harry. We worked a case together before and . . . uh, what’s going on in there now, anyway?”
    “Final motions before they start. They started with a closed session and they’re just doing some housekeeping. Not worth being in there. Everybody thinks the judge will probably finish before lunch and then give the lawyers the rest of the day to work on openers. They start tomorrow at ten. You think things are crowded here now? Wait till tomorrow.”
    McCaleb nodded.
    “Oh, well, okay then. Uh, nice seeing you again, Jack. Good luck with the story. And the book, if it comes to that.”
    “You know, I would have liked to write your story. You know, with the heart and everything.”
    McCaleb nodded.
    “Well, I owed Keisha Russell one and she did a good job with it.”
    McCaleb