Bosch had ridden the incline railroad as a kid
and had studied how it worked. He still remembered. The two matching cars were counterbalanced. When one went up the side by side tracks the other went down, and vice versa. They passed
each other at the midpoint. He remembered riding on Angels Flight long before Bunker Hill had been reborn as a slick business center of glass and marble towers, classy condominiums and apartments,
museums and fountains referred to as water gardens. Back then the hill had been a place of once grand Victorian homes turned into tired looking rooming houses. Harry and his mother had taken Angels
Flight up the hill to look for a place to live.
— — — —
He crossed the
street to the Angels Flight arch and waited behind two Asian tourists. The train cars were passing each other at the midpoint on the tracks. He checked the names painted above the doors of each
car. Sinai was going up and Olivet was coming down. A minute later, Bosch followed the tourists as they stepped onto Olivet. He watched as they unknowingly sat on the same
bench where Catalina Perez had died about ten hours earlier. The blood had been cleaned away, the wood too dark and old to reveal any stain. He didn't bother telling them the recent history of
their spot. He doubted they understood his language anyway.