Lost Light by Michael Connelly Page A

off.”
    She nodded good-naturedly and waited. My turn now. She was in her early forties, divorced like me. She had light brown hair with lighter streaks in it that she told me she had added in the beauty shop. Her smile was the thing, though. It took over her whole face and was infectious. I could tell that being with her would mean working night and day to keep that smile going. And I didn’t know if I could do it.
    “How’s your mother doing?”
    “I’m about to go find out. Are you leaving? I thought maybe I could check in with her and we could get some coffee in the cafeteria.”
    I put a pained look on my face and checked my watch.
    “I can’t. I have to be in Westwood at four.”
    She nodded like she understood. But I could see in her eyes that she was taking it as a rejection.
    “Well, don’t let me hold you up. You’ll probably be late as it is.”
    “Yeah, I should go.”
    But I didn’t. I stood looking at her.
    “What?” she finally asked.
    “I don’t know. I’m kind of involved in this case at the moment but I was trying to think of when we could get together.”
    Suspicion entered her eyes and she gestured toward the saxophone case in my hand.
    “You told me you were retired.”
    “I am. I’m kind of working this on the side. Freelance, you could say. That’s where I have to go now, to go talk to an investigator at the FBI.”
    “Oh. Well, go. Be careful.”
    “I will. So can we get together maybe one night next week or something?”
    “Sure, Harry. I’d like that.”
    “Okay, good. I want to, Melissa.”
    I nodded and she nodded and then she made a move toward me and came up on her toes. She put one hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. Then she continued down the hallway. I turned and watched her go.
    I walked out of that place wondering what I was doing. I was holding out hope of something to that woman that I knew deep down I could not deliver. It was a mistake that was born of good intentions but that would ultimately hurt her. As I got into the Mercedes I told myself I had to end it before it started. Next time I saw her I would have to tell her I was not the man she was looking for. I couldn’t keep that smile on her face.

10
     
    I t was 4:15 by the time I got to the federal building in Westwood. As I was heading through the parking lot toward the security entrance my cell phone rang. It was Keisha Russell.
    “Hey, Harry Bosch,” she said. “Wanted to let you know, I printed out everything and put it in the mail. But I was wrong about something.”
    “What was that?”
    “There was an update on the case. It ran a couple months ago. I was on vacation. You stick around here long enough and they give you four weeks paid vacation. I took it all at once and went to London. While I was gone it was the third anniversary of Martha Gessler’s disappearance. People were poaching on my beat right and left, I tell you. David Ferrell did an update. Nothing new, though. She’s still in the wind.”
    “In the wind? That suggests you—or the bureau—think she’s still alive. Before, you said she was presumed dead.”
    “Just an expression, mon. I don’t think anybody’s holding their breath for her, if you know what I mean.”
    “Yeah. Did you put that update in the clips you’re sending me?”
    “It’s all there. And you remember who sent it. Ferrell’s a nice guy but I don’t want you calling him if something you’re doing breaks big.”
    “Never happen, Keisha.”
    “I know you are up to something. I did my homework on you.”
    That made me pause as I was halfway across the building’s front plaza. If she had called the bureau and spoken to Nunez, the agent wasn’t going to be happy about me involving a nosy reporter.
    “What do you mean?” I asked calmly. “What did you do?”
    “I did more than just check the clips. I called Sacramento. The state licensing board. I found out that you applied for and received a private investigator’s