He could see the purple-hued mountains past Pasadena and Altadena. From the back porch Bosch could look northeast across Burbank and Glendale. It was a scary place to be during earthquakes, daring Mother Nature to twang those beams and send the house down the hill like a sled. It hung out over the edge if the hill and was supported by three steel pylons at its midpoint. His home was a wood-framed, one-bedroom cantilever not much bigger than a Beverly Hills garage. Bosch got off at Barham and then took Woodrow Wilson up into the hills above Studio City. The file was weighted down by a six-pack of Henry’s. He had the car radio tuned to a jazz station and Coltrane was playing “Soul Eyes.” On the seat next to him was a file containing the newspaper clippings from Bremmer. The sun hung like a ball of copper in the driver’s-side window. Made you forget it was the smog that made their colors so brilliant, that behind every pretty picture there could be an ugly story. It was beautiful deception, Bosch thought, as he drove north on the Hollywood Freeway to home. The setting sun burned the sky pink and orange in the same bright hues as surfers’ bathing suits. Home » The Black Echo (1992) » The Black Echo Excerpt
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