He needed a phone and some caffeine. Bosch thought of Cal Moore and what he did and what he left behind. He would sleep tonight, he knew. And the solitary altar under the oak tree was remembered no more.
The plan was to strike at midnight. She tended her famous visitor as if he were her father, bringing him cold drinks and comforts like a slave, yet rebuffing with charniing innocence his attempts to seduce her. You hear about Moore? Shit, I saw the news last night. Now tell me about Zorrillo.
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