… even though we ain't got scratch …
Wycliffe was an old man. Older than Bosch. He operated out of a red brick warehouse he’d claimed at a foreclosure auction. Two stories along the Nickel Plate Line. With its own rusty siding.
Bosch already had a studio on the second floor when the dancer arrived. She’d occupy the other half of the floor, thank you.
We were becoming quite the subset.
At least the plumbing worked. And nobody asked questions.
Not to our face.
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