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be?” he said, more to himself than Walling.
    “Who took these photos?”
    “We don’t know.”
    “Well, he’s got at least one fishing partner. I’d start there.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “Rachel, this is a big help. Thank you.”
    “The FBI is always glad to help.”
    Bosch pulled his phone and made a call. Jackson picked up immediately.
    “Where is he?”
    “He’s home. He’s gotta know that we’re watching him. Did your agent pal come up with anything?”
    “Yeah, we’re looking for a handheld GPS device. It’s in one of the pictures. He marked his fishing spots and he might have marked the spots where he put the girls. I didn’t see it on any of the search inventories and I know it wasn’t on the boat. You or Tim have any ideas?”
    There was a long silence. Bosch heard muffled voices.
    “Rick, you there?”
    “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I was just telling Tim. I think we know where it is.”
    Bosch’s eyes darted to Rachel and he held back his first response, which was to ask why the hell the GPS device hadn’t come up before if they had known about it.
    “Tell me,” he said instead.
    “When we interviewed the guys Denninger plays poker with, a couple of them said they hadn’t seen him since he lost a big pot a couple weeks ago and stormed off.”
    “Okay.”
    “Well, you know, we asked how much he lost and they told us he lost like six hundred dollars and all his numbers. I said what do you mean, numbers? And they said his fishing spots. They didn’t say anything about a GPS device and it didn’t occur to me that—”
    “Who won the pot?”
    “I don’t know but we can find out. I’ll start calling those guys back.”
    “Do it. We need those numbers. Call me as soon as you have a name.”
    Bosch closed the phone and looked at Walling.
    “Time to go fishing.”
    Bosch felt queasy. The police dive boat was rocking on three-foot rollers. They had been out almost two hours on Santa Monica Bay and were on the seventh location. Denninger’s GPS had twenty-two waypoints stored on it. And it was shaping up to be a long day on rough seas.
    Harry studied the blue-black water and waited. The captain had said they were in thirty-two feet of water. After a while he looked back toward the coast and saw the bloom of smog that hovered above the city. He thought about having spent his whole life underneath it, and it only made him feel more ill.
    He quickly crossed to the other side of the boat and leaned over the side. The captain had given him specific instructions. If he were to get sick, he had to lean over the port side. That way the current would take his vomit away from the dive zone. He heaved twice, two deep exorcisms from the gut. He watched the current take away what was left of his breakfast.
    He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He wiped his mouth with one hand and pulled the phone with the other.
    “Bosch.”
    “Harry, are you all right?”
    It was Walling.
    “Yeah. Just a little seasick.”
    “Yes. I wanted to check in. You’re still out there?”
    “Unfortunately. We’re on the seventh location. Nothing so far.”
    “You sound terrible. Maybe you should go in.”
    “No, I’m here till we find them. Or till we don’t.”
    “They can look without you. You’re not diving.”
    “If they find the girls, I need to be here.” He said it in a tone that ended the debate.
    “Okay, Harry. Let me know, all right?”
    “I’ll call you.”
    By the time they got to the eleventh location, the sun was high, the wind had died away, and both the seas and Bosch’s stomach had calmed. The water had changed color too. It was a lighter blue in the sunlight. More inviting, less severe. Bosch sat on the stern and watched the air bubbles boil to the surface. There were four divers thirty-nine feet down in low-visibility water. The boat captain, the forensics guy, and two deck hands were inside the cabin. Ever since Bosch had gotten sick, they had left him by himself.
    Bosch heard splashing and