Ah.
Here you go.
Horace Tapscott.
Hmm.
Guessing...
saxophone?
Piano and social justice.
Hm. Sounds progressive.
Not exactly your Blue Note groove.
I'm trying to find something you might like.
I don't even have a turntable.
You know, when the Central Avenue clubs closed,
Tapscott formed the Pan African
People's Arkestra. It single-handedly
kept the Leimert Park music scene
alive for years.
Hmm.
My father listens to jazz, Harry.
Me, I'm more Ozomatli or Los Lobos. No offense.
I'm not your father, and I dig Los Lobos.
- Hmm. - No offense.
Excuse me.
The other woman?
Girl.
Keep telling yourself that.
Dinner was fantastic.
I got time to drive you home.
Opposite directions, and it's late.
I have a crazy day tomorrow.
You got a crazy day every day.
Here's my Uber.
Go home to your girl.
**
* I got a feeling that I can't let go *
* I can't let go *
* I feel *
Watch the right side. Slow down. Slow down.
I want to-- I don't want to drive like an old person.
Well, these hillside streets can be a little tricky,
but you're doing great.
You're doing really great.
You were even later last night.
- Eyes on the road. - It was, like, 3 a.m.
I heard you come in.
Okay, so what, you wanna put me on a curfew now?
Can I?
Focus on the next thing, not what's in front of you.
The back of the turn, not the beginning.
You know, Anita Benitez does not have a Facebook page.
Yeah, well, DAs deal with bad people.
They tend to keep a low profile.
Eyes on the road,
Maddie.
Keep right. Keep right.
Hands at 10 and 2.
Perfect.
You're doing great.
You can relax now.
I love you, too. See you tonight.
Oh, hey. Uh...
Harry, right?
Yeah.
Phil Gentry.
I was hoping I'd run into you.
- Hey, Maddie. - Hey.
So is Maddie liking volleyball?
I hear she's an absolute stud.
She's having fun.
Yeah, my Becca's the setter.
They're good friends. She convinced her to try out.
You know, listen, I just want you to know
that all the parents here, we really admire what you do.
We've never had a-- a cop who was a dad before.
I mean-- I mean a dad who was a--
Something I can do for you?
Yeah, well, um...
I was maybe doing 50
on that stretch of Third
over by Larchmont, but everybody does.
It's a 35 zone.
Yeah, and I back off,
but this motorcycle cop was running this speed trap there,
and, uh...
and I was just wondering,
um...
Thank you.
Want you to take the lead on this.
And remember, it's a murder scene
until we prove it's not.
Landlord.
Victim is male,
50-ish...
white.
Jesus.
Looks like he landed head first.
See but don't assume.
I.D.?
Rhodes is talking to the landlord now.
Public easement-- easy access,
but screened from the street.
Security camera pointed the wrong way.
Yeah. What a surprise.
I'll go door-to-door.
- Officer Rhodes. - Detective.
What fresh hell we got here?
Well, the vic lives right upstairs.
And, uh...
looks to be a straight shot.
Last name Gunn.
You told this asshole you'd look out for him?
I didn't want to go off on him
in front of Maddie and her friends.
There. Taken care of.
You better warn Maddie that her best friend's dad
is gonna have a warrant on his ass in about 30 days.
- They're not best friends. - Just saying.
That was possibly the most useless autopsy
we've been to in a while.
When are you going to learn?
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Dress down on morgue days. Dress like me.
- Bosch. - Robertson.
We just rolled on a jumper, and what do you know?
The guy's got a flag call Harry Bosch.
What's the name?
Gunn. Edward James.
Where is he?
His apartment. It's on 42--
On our way.
What was that?
Summer of '08.
Victims were two working girls
who used the same escort website.
Killed in a similar fashion--
abducted, tortured,
bodies dumped in alleys.
Seven years we've been partners,
never once have you talked about Edward Gunn.
Not a case we worked together.
You've got him flagged, Harry.
Anyway, we had Gunn good for both murders
and possibly some others we didn't even know about,
but O'Shea was getting ready to run for DA.
Didn't have the balls to file
because it wasn't a 100% sure thing.
You've been keeping tabs on a serial killer
- and didn't tell me. - Never came up.
And the other night?
Gunn showed up in the Rampart drunk tank.
I dropped by to see
if he wanted to clear his conscience, confess.
He was dead drunk.
Went back the next morning, he was gone.
- Somebody bailed him out. - Who?
I do not know.
- Gentlemen. - Hey.
Kid here thinks it's a suicide.
There's a note. And it looks like he downed
a heavy dose of liquid courage to get up the nerve.
I keep telling him, don't jump to conclusions.
Look small, find large. Look large, find small.
- I'm partnered with Yoda. - Hey, Yoda, my ass.
Why don't you give 'em a tour so we can finish up here?
Is that a "murse"?
It's my homicide kit. Don't give me shit.
My wife gave it to me when I made rank.
Handsome.
Yeah, yeah.
What's your history with this guy?
Case that got away.
That itch that can't ever be scratched, eh?
I know the feeling.
Point of impact?
Kinda close to the building, no?
Yep.
What's up?
Depleted quart of Gentleman Jim.
There's your confession, Harry.
"I'm sorry."
That's remorse, not a confession.
Could've gotten drunk and fell over the balcony.
That's what my partner says.
Pierce!
Now what?
Bosch?
Hey.
You see something else you want to share?
No, I'm good.
Have fun.
Always.
Where are we on Meadows?
Autopsy confirmed his I.D.
and that he was a habitual abuser of opioids.
Patrol's looking for the tagger as a possible witness,
and I gotta write a warrant for the storage bin.
How's Bosch?
He's pretty focused on the Holland trial prep.
And you know how he gets.
Don't dance with me, Jerry.
It's not what I meant and you know it.
Come on, this O'Shea thing.
Harry's got a bulls-eye on his back again.
I think he's well aware of that.
I worry that he likes it in his present mood.
What mood is that?
Cranky, cantankerous.
I can't speak to his moods.
You could.
I guess I have to respect that you won't.
Detective, hey.
Found my shake on that tagger.
Thomas Niese. Goes by Sharkey on the street.
A long rap of juvie hijinks.
Ah, great, Edge. Thank you.
Hey.
Buy me a 40?
How old are you?
I got money.
Come on, buy me a 40. We can take it and chill.
Don't touch that.
I said don't touch that.
Dude.
Hey. No, no, not while I'm driving.
Really? That's what you're worried about?
An open container?
Where are we going?
Make a right here.
Right up there on the curb
behind the dumpster.
Here?
Yeah.
Can we do this in the back?
Okay. Sure.
- Expensive car. - Uh-huh.
Good taste.
- Oh! What the-- - Motherfucker!
Jesus Christ. What the fuck is this?
Let's go, let's go.
Get a new flaptop, motherfucker.
This one sucks.
Come on, let's go.
**
Mr. Holland, open the door.
- I got my lawyer coming. - Yeah, okay, good.
You break one fucking thing in this house,
I'm suing you,
and I'm suing the fucking LAPD.
Go ahead because everyone else does.
Oh, that's your idea of wit?
Yes, it is.
Hey, hey, buddy, I'm telling you,
you put one scratch on anything--
Don't worry Mr. Holland. We'll be careful.
Shut-- Get that thing out of my freaking face.
Okay. Lovely. There's that.
Tell me about this statement from Mr. Holland, detective.
We were packed up. Leaving. Camera was off.
I was last one out because I needed
to give him a copy of the search warrant,
and I did so at the door.
Mr. Fowkkes, did you witness this?
No, I was on a, uh, phone call, Your Honor,
- in another room. - Mr. Holland asked me
if we had found what we were looking for.
I said no, and, as we walking outside,
he said, "And you won't, either."
Sounds like he was professing his innocence.
Those were his words,
but that wasn't his tone of voice.
Tone of voice? Your Honor, really?
Let him finish. What was his tone?
Taunting. At that point,
Mr. Holland wasn't officially a suspect,
so I took a wild shot.
I said, "You did it, didn't you?"
He smiled and said, "And I'll get away with it, too."
Your Honor, no one else heard this alleged conversation
- except Detective Bosch. - And that's not all.
- He said one more thing. - Go on.
Mr. Holland looked at me and said,
"I am a god in this town, detective,
and you don't fuck with the gods."
Preposterous.
Your Honor, Detective Bosch has a long history
of investigative misconduct--
Your Honor, a defendant's own voluntary
out-of-court statements are a hearsay exception
and can be used against him at trial.
She's right, Mr. Fowkkes.
Detective Bosch fabricated this entire conversation.
And you're welcome to attack the credibility of the witness.
The jury will sort it out. It's called a trial.
No, no, no, no, no. Do not do the "unringing the bell" trope.
No. Do not go there, not in my court.
Your motion to suppress
the testimony of Detective Bosch
is denied.
Death report on Gunn.
Be sure to tell Bosch I omitted the part
where he fucked up the crime scene with his prints.
No way.
On a glass with whiskey in it.
Harry always gloves up.
Apparently, not always.
I saw him glove up, Jimmy.
Lab don't lie, J. Edgar.
I should probably tell Billets,
but, you know, I'm not that kind of guy.
Robertson's write-up on Gunn.
Pretty thin. Guess an elephant hunter
doesn't want to waste too much time
with small game.
Says you left prints at the scene.
Robertson's full of shit. Never happened.
Look at my screen, Harry.
It's not just Jimmy saying it.
It's latent prints.
Ah, shit.
I took off my glove to work my phone screen--
the picture I sent to O'Shea of the suicide note.
I must have moved the glass to get a clear shot.
Is he being all self-righteous about this?
Yeah.
But he left it out of the report, so there's that.
You headed back downtown?
Annabelle Crowe. Dress rehearsal.
How's our Meadows warrant?
Oh. I'm on it. Almost done.
You're not writing a novel.
The jury's gonna wonder
why you waited a year to call the police.
I was embarrassed, okay?
Andrew Holland is an important person in my business.
Is that why you didn't show the bruises on your neck to anyone?
Why you erased his voicemail message?
I just kept thinking, like...
What if I had it wrong? You know.
You hear about Hollywood people,
weird sex, I don't know.
Maybe I was just being a prude,
not chill enough about it.
Okay. Dinner, drinks, back to Andrew Holland's house.
It all seemed perfectly normal.
Yes.
We did some Molly, fooled around.
Clothes came off.
- Consensual. - Yeah.
But he didn't like me touching him.
He wanted to control everything.
After a while, he moved behind me.
I felt his hands around my neck.
He squeezed.
I couldn't breathe.
Did you tell him to stop?
I tried. I couldn't.
I couldn't speak.
I tried to get out from under him,
but he was too strong.
And then he was--
he was moving inside me,
and it was all I could do to just--
And then?
Nothing.
I blacked out.
I woke up alone in his bed naked on top of the covers.
I could hear the shower running.
I found my clothes in a bag--
in a black plastic garbage bag--
by the bedroom door.
My purse had been emptied out.
I saw my phone, but I couldn't find my keys.
I started to get dressed, and I heard the shower stop.
I grabbed the whole bag,
and I ran out the door, down the driveway,
through the front gate, and...
I hid in the shadows and got dressed.
And I walked until I had cell phone reception
so I could call a cab.
And why not the police right then?
He had already left me a voicemail on my cell,
worried about where I'd gone, saying I'd forgotten my keys,
and saying he was sorry
that things had gotten carried away, and he--
he thought I was really into it.
He just wanted to satisfy me.
Did he explain why he had to take a shower
after he'd choked you out?
What did you think the garbage bag meant?
The empty purse?
I don't know.
He was getting rid of the evidence.
He thought you were dead.
Bosch.
Let her tell it her way.
I tried to forget about it.
But when I read about him being arrested
for the murder of Donatella Spear,
I thought--
If I had said something, she might still be alive.
No she wouldn't.
A guy like this...
keeps stretching till he snaps.
You're just lucky it wasn't you.
How'd he seem?
Bosch? Wound up.
Really anxious to talk to that knucklehead.
Bosch said Gunn was too drunk to talk.
Yeah, he was out. I felt bad.
When I called him, Gunn was conscious.
Otherwise, I wouldn't have called him at home at that hour.
You've called Bosch on Gunn before?
Oh, yeah.
Going back at least three, four times on my watch.
- J. Edgar. - Hey.
Coroner ruled Gunn's death a homicide.
Somebody held him by the ankles
and dropped him on his head.
Congratulations.
Means I probably won't be able to protect Harry
from his fuck-up with the prints.
It's gonna come up.
No doubt.
Ladies.
Whoa. Good God, man, don't drink that.
You out of your mind?
Ugh.
This is Crate's brew.
This shit tastes
like it's fashioned from pencil shavings.
Gugh. Here.
Take that. Ugh.
All right, Jerry,
do not tell anyone.
Green Mountain Kenyan.
I have to hide it from the hoi polloi.
Okay.
So that, my friend,
will set the world right on its axis.
And your bowels will thank me later.
Probably like that.
Yeah, but if you turned it around--
if it was like this, if this means anything...
Why do you keep looking at that?
Gunn's now a murder.
Drop seemed odd.
You still worrying over my prints, Jerry?
You're not?
How was Crowe?
I don't know. There's something she's holding back.
About Holland or herself?
Somewhere in the intersection.
Benitez agree with you?
She thinks I'm hung up on all the ones that got away.
Perceptive.
Fuck you.
All right. Every police officer
brings different needs and values--
values and perceptions to the workplace.
So special--
Yes. Come in.
You got a minute, Lieutenant?
Oh, sure. Come. Sit down.
Let me know if Harry looks over
or starts to come in.
What's going on?
Hey.
You all right?
Why? Do I seem off?
A little more opaque than the usual.
Sorry. I got a lot going on.
We both do.
Are we good?
Oh. I'm gonna take another hard look
at Annabelle Crowe.
I never doubted you would.
Then we're good.
Shit.
That's what I keep saying.
Still, it doesn't exactly add up
to Harry's come off the chain and become an avenging angel.
He's been a different person
since he solved his mom's murder.
Her killer got away with it.
Edward Gunn got away with two, at least.
And Veronica Allen walked.
Harry's a lot of things, but he is not a cold blooded--
I agree with you. I agree.
But he's lying about his prints
and I don't know what else.
Shit.
Robertson is a good detective.
A lot like Harry.
He's old school, dogged.
- I know. - I mean, ask yourself this,
right? If Harry found your prints
- at the murder scene-- - Here he comes.
You see what I'm saying?
I do.
Come in.
Hey.
Gotta go pick up my daughter.
Okay. LT signed off on the warrant,
so I'll swing by court in the morning
and meet you at The Bin.
Okay. I'm out.
You have a good night.
Rick Jackson was Harry's partner
on the original Gunn investigation.
He works Pacific now.
Four years with Bosch burned him out.
- He fled to the beach. - Seriously,
we can compare scars.
You're gonna have to work this sub-rosa.
Stay ahead of Robertson.
Find out what the fuck is going on.
Hey, light?
Good night.
Good night. I'm tired.
Later, bro.
You were right.
Check it out.
It's like Gunn was clawing at the opening
to keep from getting taken through it.
Not on the wall by the door
leading out where he went over.
- Because he-- - Where, presumably,
he'd be fighting even harder to stay inside,
unless he couldn't. What was his tox level?
Borderline.
Uh, I mean .09 or something.
It's not likely he passed out.
Yeah.
But he could have been made to
between here and there.
You bring the murder book?
You learned carotid restraint control at the Academy, right?
A pain in the ass to get right.
You get it wrong, it turns into a choke hold.
People die. Some of the time,
we saw abrasion patterns on suspects backs,
like this.
Think about the way we brace the hold--
one arm around the neck,
the other one across the back.
So you can control the pressure on the neck arteries
- with the angle of your arm. - Mm-hmm.
Now, these half circles are abrasions
caused by the bands and bezels
of those chunky chrono wristwatches
us O.G. cops tend to favor.
A cop made Gunn pass out?
Then dragged him to the balcony
and dropped him head first.
Not definitively.
Military teaches it, mixed martial arts.
Anyone can find a how-to on the internet.
Or a cop of a certain age.
Yeah.
My age.
Jesus.
Cross Los Angeles Street,
suddenly I'm in Calcutta.
Dark side of gentrification.
How much you wanna bet those million-dollar lofts
got windows facing the other way?
Patty, my partner Harry Bosch.
Hi, Patty. Sorry I'm late.
DWP is digging random holes on Temple
trying to see how far back they can hold things up.
You should get a traffic app for your phone, detective.
Then we could watch his head explode.
We go in here.
So, Patty, how secure are these?
Well, they need ID to get in,
but we tell them not to leave anything too valuable.
They have to come back every week
to renew. And demand is high.
There's never enough.
Let's see, Meadows-- 1901.
Oh, you're just in time.
We were about to empty his bin
and give it to somebody else.
There.
- Thank you. - Mm-hmm.
Lieutenant Grace Billets?
Sir.
Hi. Grace Billets.
Oh.
Grace Billets.
Grace, have a seat, please.
Thanks.
You want a water or something?
Uh, no, thanks.
Okay, let's get to it.
We have 45 minutes,
so please be concise as you can.
- I'll try. - First off, an easy one.
Mm-hmm.
Briefly tell us about yourself
and why you think you should be promoted to captain.
Well, my dad was a cop.
My uncle worked Valley Division.
I was born here.
I grew up in this city, and I still live here,
so I think that being a legacy and a resident
gives me a pretty clear perspective
on community policing.
A person's whole life
reduced to what fits in a garbage can.
This his foot locker?
No.
That's a Pelican case.
That's what you use
when you get out of the service,
not when you go in as a boot.
Hunting trophy.
There's a false bottom.
He did multiple tours--
Iraq...
Afghanistan.
Went back as a hired gun, too.
The girl?
They seem so sure of themselves.
You have to be.
Because after that, you're never so sure again.
I ever tell you how I got rid of the tats on my hands?
No.
H-O-L-D.
F-A-S-T.
Hold fast. To what?
Life, brother.
Everything.
Anything you could grab on to to keep from going under.
Shit, I was just a kid.
Saw it on tuna guys down in Pedro.
Ex-Navy.
Some kind of sailor thing?
Yeah.
So anyways, a couple years later,
I enlisted in the Army.
My sergeant at basic saw it and flipped out.
Said there's no way he was gonna have
a squid tattoo on one of his soldiers,
so he makes me go out behind the back of the barracks
and punch this cinderblock wall
till my knuckles were like hamburger.
When they scabbed over,
he made me go back out...
do it again...
and again.
That's crazy.
I was all in with it.
That's how sure we were.
Stress can be a huge factor.
Frustration with the slow churn of justice.
But if you tell people exactly what they need to do and why,
the majority respond very positively
and often exceed expectations.
Last question is situational.
Mm-hmm.
A lieutenant under your direct command
has had an inappropriate sexual relationship
with one of her detectives.
This detective comes to you
and says that an unhappy end to the affair
is now affecting her caseload and her path to promotion.
How would you handle this?
Hey.
I've got so much math tonight.
How was practice?
Awesome.
I learned how to hit a pipe.
Excuse me?
It's a back row attack.
Short set behind the middle.
Totally fakes out the blockers.
Oh, yeah, right.
Hey, when can I drive this one?
As soon as you get a badge.
Oh.
El Pollo Brasso or In-N-Out?
Mom's worried I'm not eating healthy with you.
Chicken is healthy.
I was thinking a Double-Double with animal fries.
Oh. In-N-Out.
All major food groups.
Just so you know--
That favor you did for Becca's dad?
Yeah, what about it?
Completely changed the way the cool girls treat me now.
How did they treat you before?
new school, fresh meat.
Why didn't you tell me that?
Never came up.
But anyways, it's much better now.
You know, sometimes it sucks to be a cop's kid,
and sometimes it rocks.
You know, Maddie,
it shouldn't matter what the cool girls think.
Yeah, I know. It shouldn't.
He's my Inspector Javert,
relentless in his pursuit of false justice.
The full weight of a corrupt system brought to bear on me
by its woefully inept agent provocateur.
Les Miz.
Sterling Hayden in The Godfather.
Character name?
Captain McCluskey.
- Dudley Smith. - L.A. Confidential.
He's your Porfiry Petrovich.
Crime and Punishment.
Wrong.
Raskolnikov was guilty of that crime,
not unjustly accused.
It's so unfair.
That's what makes it so compelling.
The blameless protagonist--
yours truly--
swept up in a pulp-novel fiction
spun by this self-appointed accuser and executioner.
But he will get his hard reversal in the final act,
when all mysteries are revealed.
Son of a whore.
Come on.
Literally.
His mother was killed by one of her clients.
Vengeance boils in Harry Bosch's blood.
It all gives me the chills.
But like any good villain, Bosch sees this world
through the narrow filter of his broken childhood.
He wants to save his mother.
He wants to punish her killer.
He sees in me all the things that roil him:
success and sexuality
and-- and a healthy disregard for his tenuous authority.
Are you thinking this could be your next film?
It's so trope-y. Who'd believe it?
I would.
I don't think it's trope-y.
You just want to be in it.
As long as I don't have to fuck the cop.
Nah.
He fucks himself.
Beware, beware.
God sees.
Harry.