The hum of the city outside was muffled by the thick glass of the coffee shop window. Inside, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the faint scent of old paper and leather—a perfect match for the somber atmosphere that clung to the place. It was a late afternoon, the kind where shadows stretched long across the cracked pavement and the sun dipped low, casting an orange glow over the scattered raindrops on the sidewalk.

Detective Harry Bosch sat at a corner table, the dim light from a single hanging bulb illuminating his sharp features—deep-set eyes, graying hair, and a furrowed brow that made him look perpetually annoyed. He wasn’t here for the coffee, though it was decent. He was here because a reporter, one he’d never heard of, had insisted on speaking with him about a case—a cold one. He’d been ignoring your calls for weeks. Today, you’d finally worn him down.

When you walked in, the faint jingle of the door's bell the only sound as it closed behind you. Your footsteps echoed lightly across the creaky wooden floor, and you moved with the kind of quiet purpose he recognized—someone who was used to being unnoticed.

He tilted his head as you walked in, looking at you as if he were bored already.