The Black Echo (Harry Bosch, #1; Harry Bosch Universe, #1)

by Michael Connelly

After leaving the pipe to Donovan, Bosch had lit a cigarette and walked to the dam’s railing to look down on the fouled city and brood.

One cop’s word against another’s was something they wouldn’t touch in this department. Deep down, they knew a cop’s word by itself was worthless.

An hour and seven cigarettes later, Bosch found it.

He thought about bed but knew there would be no more sleep this night. It was often this way with Bosch.

Bosch nodded. But too much going with the flow is heading us into the sewer, he thought but didn’t say. Sometimes he believed that he took things just right and everybody else didn’t take them seriously enough. That was the problem. Everybody had an outside gig.

Harry ate the last slice of pizza. It was cold and he hated anchovies and he felt he deserved it that way.

Alcohol and jazz, he thought as he swallowed.

A bored woman was sitting behind a sliding glass window working on the Times crossword. The window was closed. On the sill was a plastic paper-ticket dispenser like they use at a meat-market counter. After a few moments she looked up at Bosch. He was holding his badge up. “Do you know a six-letter word for a man of constant sorrow and loneliness?” she asked after sliding the window open and then checking her nail for damage. “Bosch.” “What?” “Detective Harry Bosch. Buzz me in. I want to see Hector V.”

He defined good company not by the conversation but by the lack of it. When there was no need to talk to feel comfortable, that was the right company.

He still couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for the two IAD cops, and that made him feel sorry for himself. Made him feel like the hardening of the heart was now complete. He no longer had compassion for anybody, not even poor dumb jerks who screwed up and got themselves killed.