The Night Fire: A Ballard and Bosch thriller (Harry Bosch 22) by Michael Connelly Page A

small square pink envelope with Morales’s name written on it. Bosch had bought it at the CVS in the underground mall by the federal building.
    “You want me to give it to him?” Seville asked.
    “No, it sort of comes with a story I need to tell him,” Bosch said.
    “Okay, let me see if I can find him.”
    “Thanks. I’ll wait here.”
    Seville disappeared around the front of the ladder truck and went into the station house. Bosch turned and looked out from the station. There was an embankment supporting the 110 freeway and Bosch could hear the sound of traffic from above. He guessed that it was not moving very quickly up there. It was right in the middle of rush hour.
    He raised his foot and bent his knee a few times. It was feeling stiff. “You wanted to see me?”
    Bosch turned and saw a man in the blue LAFD uniform, the name MORALES above his shirt pocket.
    “Yes, sir,” Bosch said. “You’re Albert Morales, Rescue Three?”
    “That’s right,” Morales said. “What is—”
    “Then this is for you.”
    Bosch reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Morales. The paramedic opened and looked at it. He seemed confused.
    “What the hell is this?” he asked. “Seville said it was a thank-you note or something.”
    “That’s a subpoena signed by a judge,” Bosch said. “You need to be in court tomorrow morning at nine sharp. Jeffrey Herstadt thanks you in advance.”
    He offered the pink envelope to Morales, but he didn’t take it.
    “Wait, these are supposed to be served at headquarters, across the street from City Hall,” Morales said. “Then they come to me. So take it over there.”
    Morales held the subpoena out to Bosch.
    “There was no time for that,” Bosch said. “Judge Falcone signed it today and he wants you there first thing tomorrow. You don’t show, he’ll issue a warrant.”
    “This is bullshit,” Morales said. “I’m off tomorrow and going up to Arrowhead. I’ve got three days.”
    “I think you’ll be in and out. You’ll still get to Arrowhead.”
    “What case is this? You said Herstat?”
    “Jeffrey Herstadt. Spelled H-E-R-S-T-A-D-T. You treated him for seizure at the Starbucks by Grand Park seven months ago.”
    “That’s the guy who killed the judge.”
    “Allegedly.”
    Bosch pointed to the subpoena, still clutched in Morales’s hand.
    “It says you need to bring any documentation of the call you have. And your rescue kit.”
    “My kit? What the fuck for?”
    “I guess you’ll find out tomorrow. Anyway, that’s all I know. You’ve been served and we’ll see you at nine a.m. tomorrow.”
    Bosch turned and walked away, heading back toward his car and trying not to limp. Morales threw one more “This is bullshit” at his back. Bosch didn’t turn around when he responded.
    “See you tomorrow.”
    Bosch got back in his car and immediately called Mickey Haller.
    “You get the subpoena?” Haller said.
    “Yep,” Bosch replied. “In and out—thanks for greasing it.”
    “Now tell me you served Morales.”
    “Just did. He’s not too happy about it but I think he’ll be there.”
    “He better or my ass will be in a sling with Falcone. You tell him the subpoena includes his kit?”
    “I did, and it’s on the subpoena. Are you going to be able to get him on the stand?”
    “The prosecutor is going to carp about it, but I’m not counting on any pushback from the judge.”
    Bosch unlocked the Jeep and got in. He decided not to attempt the freeway at this hour. He would turn on First and take it to Beverly and ride that all the way into Hollywood.
    “Your DNA lady get in?” he asked.
    “Just got the word,” Haller said. “She says she’s in the car with Stace and heading to the hotel. She’ll be good to go tomorrow.”
    “You talked to her about this? She knows the plan?”
    “Ran it all by her. We’re good. It’s funny—today I was semi-bullshitting about her having a specialty and