The Drop by Michael Connelly Page A

there’s a problem at the lab but we have to check it out in case it ever came up at trial—if there ever is a trial. One of us has to be able to testify that we checked out the lab.”
    “So what do I tell them when I get there?”
    “We have an appointment with the deputy director. Just tell her you need to double-check how the evidence from the case was handled. You interview the lab rat that ran the case and that will be it. Twenty minutes, tops. Take notes.”
    “And what will you be doing?”
    “Hopefully talking to Clayton Pell about a man named Johnny.”
    “What?”
    “I’ll tell you when I get back to the PAB. I gotta go.”
    “Har—”
    Bosch disconnected. He didn’t want to get bogged down with explanations. That slowed things down. He wanted to keep his momentum.
    Twenty minutes later he was cruising Woodman looking for a parking slot near the Buena Vista apartments. There was nothing and he ended up parking on a red curb and walking a block back to the halfway house. He reached through the gate to buzz the office. He identified himself and asked for Dr. Stone. The gate was unlocked and he entered.
    Hannah Stone was waiting for him with a smile in the office suite’s lobby area. He asked if she had her own office or a place where they could speak privately and she took him into one of the interview rooms.
    “This will have to do,” she said. “I share an office with two other therapists. What’s going on, Harry? I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”
    Bosch nodded, agreeing that he had thought the same thing.
    “I want to talk to Clayton Pell.”
    She frowned as though he was putting her in a difficult position.
    “Well, Harry, if Clayton is a suspect, then you’ve put me in a very—”
    “He’s not. Look, can we sit down for a second?”
    She pointed him to what he assumed was the client/patient chair while she took a chair facing it.
    “Okay,” Bosch started. “First, I have to tell you that what I say here will probably sound too coincidental to be coincidence—in fact, I don’t even believe in coincidence. But what we talked about last night at dinner hooked into what I did after dinner and here I am. I need your help. I need to talk to Pell.”
    “And it’s not because he’s a suspect?”
    “No, he was too young. We know he’s not the killer. But he’s a witness.”
    She shook her head.
    “I’ve been talking to him four times a week for nearly six months. I think if he had witnessed this girl’s murder, it would have come up on some level, subconscious or not.”
    Bosch held up his hands to stop her.
    “Not an eyewitness. He wasn’t there and probably doesn’t even know a thing about her. But I think he knew the killer. He can help me. Here, just take a look at this.”
    He opened his briefcase on the floor between his feet. He pulled out the original Lily Price murder book and quickly opened it to the plastic sleeves containing the faded Polaroid photos of the crime scene. Stone got up and came around to the side of his chair so she could look.
    “Okay, these are really old and faded but if you look at the victim’s neck, you can make out the pattern left by the ligature. She was strangled.”
    Bosch heard her sharp intake of breath.
    “Oh, my god,” she said.
    He closed the binder quickly and looked up at her. She had brought one hand to her mouth.
    “I’m sorry. I thought you were used to seeing stuff like—”
    “I am, I am. It’s just that you never get used to it. My specialty is sexual deviancy and dysfunction. To see the ultimate . . .”
    She pointed to the closed binder.
    “That’s what I try to stop. It’s awful to see it.”
    Bosch nodded and she told him to go back to the photos. He reopened the binder and returned to the plastic sleeves. He chose a close-up of the victim’s neck and pointed out the vague indentation on Lily Price’s skin.
    “You see what I’m talking about?”
    “Yes,” Stone said. “Poor girl.”
    “Okay,