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In 1961, when Harry was twelve, his mother, a prostitute, was brutally murdered, and no one has ever been accused of the crime. So, fine, suspend me, transfer me, take it to a Board of Rights, whatever. You've been placed on involuntary stress leave, which means—" "I know what it means and that's what's bullshit. So why don't we just cut through it and get to the point. "Can't you see that all of this is for your own welfare? Not to harass me and my profession or the leadership of the department. This is about you in here, no one else." Harry Bosch just looked at her silently.
" "I think so." Saying it out loud seemed to be the first time Bosch acknowledged that Sylvia Moore was gone from his life for good. "I guess you could say it was mutual agreement, but I didn't know about it until she was packed. She's a teacher up in the Valley and her school got wrecked.
"I don't know." "That answer is not acceptable in here. The one in Italy." "Well, then what do you think she meant by it? She's the one who said it and she's the one who left." "Don't fight me, Detective Bosch. There is nothing I want more than for you to get back to your job. Maybe that's who I am." "I doubt the reason is as simplistic as that." "Sometimes I don't." She looked at her watch and leaned forward, dissatisfaction with the session showing on her face.