He gave the radio to Bosch. He looked at Edgar, who raised his eyes in a who-knows gesture. On the ground a small donkey lay trapped with its hind leg pinched into the fork of a desert shrub, and its efforts to extricate itself had brought exhaustion. But even that was changing.
But something about the tower rising singularly above them with its empty glass eyes seemed lonely. Maybe the letter had come from Dance because he wanted to move up the ladder and Moore was in the way. No, no, she wept as he disappeared. Bosch instinctively drew his left hand up to his belt and almost dropped his coffee but then realized the man had begun to rub a newspaper on the windshield.
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