The Drop by Michael Connelly

left the house after dinner and didn’t come back.”
    “Did he say where he was going?”
    “No, he said he needed air, that he was going to put the top down and take a drive up on Mulholland. He told me not to wait up for him. I didn’t.”
    Bosch waited but nothing else came.
    “Was that unusual, him going out for a drive like that?”
    “He had been doing it a lot lately. I didn’t think he was really out driving, though.”
    “You mean he was doing something else?”
    “Connect the dots, Lieutenant.”
    “I’m a detective, not a lieutenant. Why don’t you connect the dots for me, Deborah. Do you know what your husband was doing?”
    “No, I don’t. I’m just telling you that I didn’t think he was just riding around on Mulholland. I thought he was probably meeting someone.”
    “Did you ask him about it?”
    “No. I was going to but I was waiting.”
    “For what?”
    “I don’t know exactly. I was just waiting.”
    Chu came back with a box of tissues and handed it to her. But the moment had passed and her eyes looked cold and hard now. Even so, she was beautiful, and Bosch found it hard to believe a husband would take to late-night drives when the woman waiting at home was Deborah Irving.
    “Let’s go back a second. You said he left after you two had dinner. Was that at home or had you been out?”
    “We were home. Neither of us was very hungry. We just had sandwiches.”
    “Do you remember what time dinner was?”
    “It would’ve been about seven thirty. He left at eight thirty.”
    Bosch took out his notebook and wrote a few things down about what had been said so far. He remembered that Solomon and Glanville had reported that someone—presumably George Irving—had made the reservation at the Chateau at eight fifty, twenty minutes after Deborah said her husband had left their home.
    “One-four-nine-two.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Do those numbers mean anything to you? One-four-nine-two—fourteen ninety-two?
    “I don’t understand what you mean.”
    She seemed genuinely confused. Bosch had meant to keep her off balance by asking questions in a nonsequential manner.
    “Your husband’s property—his wallet and phone and wedding ring—were in the hotel safe. That was the combination that was entered to lock it. Is there any significance to those numbers to your husband or you?”
    “I can’t think of any.”
    “Okay. Did your husband have a familiarity with the Chateau Marmont? Had he stayed there before?”
    “We had been there before together, but like I said, I didn’t really know where he went when he went on his drives. He could’ve been going there. I don’t know.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “How would you describe your husband’s state of mind when you last saw him?”
    She thought for a long moment before shrugging and saying that her husband seemed normal, not burdened or upset as far as she could tell.
    “How would you describe the state of your marriage?”
    She dropped her eyes to the floor for a moment before bringing them up to his.
    “We would have reached our twentieth anniversary in January. Twenty years is a long time. A lot of highs and lows but many more highs than lows.”
    Bosch noted that she did not answer the question he had asked.
    “What about right now? Were you in a high or a low?”
    She paused a long moment before answering.
    “Our son—our only child—left in August for college. It has been a difficult adjustment.”
    “Empty nest syndrome,” Chu said.
    Both Bosch and Deborah Irving looked at him but he added nothing else and looked a little foolish for interrupting.
    “What day in January was your anniversary?” Bosch asked.
    “The fourth.”
    “So you were married on January fourth, nineteen ninety-two?”
    “Oh, my god!”
    She brought her hands to her mouth in embarrassment over not recognizing the hotel room safe combination. Tears rolled out of her eyes and she pulled tissues from the box.
    “How stupid of me! You must think I’m a