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It had been Bosch’s experience that when you looked back at a life, you used a magnifying glass. Everything was bigger, amplified.
Harry could not use his badge and access as a San Fernando cop to facilitate or further any private investigation. That would be a firing offense.
The cause of death was handwritten: strangulation by ligature (clothesline) due to suicide.
Vance had left her on the wrong side of good-bye, and what happened in June brought about what happened in February. Bosch had a gut feeling that Vibiana’s life was taken from her long before she put the rope around her neck.
Bosch now knew. There was an heir somewhere out there. Born in 1970. Whitney Vance had a granddaughter. Bosch was sure of it.
Politicians could talk about building walls and changing laws to keep people out, but in the end they were just symbols. Neither would stop the tide any more than the rock jetties at the mouth of the port did. Nothing could stop the tide of hope and desire.
He knew that in his internal universe, there was a mission etched in a secret language, like drawings on the wall of an ancient cave, that gave him his direction and meaning. It could not be altered and it would always be there to guide him to the right path.
