Michael Connelly (124 page)

“I don’t —”

“Yes, you do. The book Mr. Bremmer wrote made those details available to the world. That, of course, could account for the
concrete blonde….But not, as I am sure you have realized, for victims seven and eleven.”

Locke was right. It was what Bosch had realized earlier. He avoided thinking about it because he dreaded the implications.

Locke said, “The answer is that the follower was somehow privy to the details. The details are what triggered his action.
You have to remember that what we are dealing with here is someone who very likely was already in the midst of some great
internal struggle when he stumbled onto an erotic program that matched his own needs. This man already had problems, whether
they had manifested in his committing crimes or not. He was a sick puppy, Harry, and he saw the Dollmaker’s erotic mold and
realized, That’s me. That’s what I want, what I need for fulfillment. He then adopted the Dollmaker’s program and acted on
it, to the very last detail. The question is, how did he stumble onto it? And the answer is, he was given access.”

For a moment they just looked at each other, then Bosch spoke.

“You’re talking about a cop. Someone on the task force. That can’t be. I was there. We all wanted this guy to go down. Nobody
was … getting off on this, man.”

“Possibly a member of the task force, Harry, only possibly. But remember, the circle of those who knew about the program was
much larger than just the task force. You have medical examiners, investigators, beat cops, photographers, reporters, paramedics,
the passersby who found the bodies — many people who had access to details the follower obviously knew about.”

Bosch tried to pull together a quick profile in his mind. Locke read him.

“It would have to be someone in or around the investigation, Harry. Not necessarily a vital part or a continuous part. But
someone who intersected with the investigation at a point that would allow him to gain knowledge of the full program. More
than what was publicly known at the time.”

Bosch said nothing until Locke prompted him.

“What else, Harry? Narrow it down.”

“Left-handed.”

“Possibly but not necessarily. Church was left-handed. The follower may only have used the left hand to make the perfect copy
of Church’s crimes.”

“That’s right but then there are the notes. Suspicious docs said they believed it was a left-handed writer. They weren’t one
hundred percent. They never are.”

“Okay, then, possibly left-handed. What else?”

Bosch thought for a moment.

“Maybe a smoker. There was a package found in the concrete. Kaminski, the victim, didn’t smoke.”

“Okay, that’s good. These are the things you need to think about to narrow it down. It’s in the details, Harry, I’m sure of
it.”

A cool wind came down the hillside and in through the French doors and chilled Bosch. It was time to go, to be alone with
this.

“Thanks again,” he said as he started once more for the door.

“What will you do?” Locke called after him.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Harry?”

Bosch stopped at the threshold and looked back at Locke, the pool glowing eerily in the darkness behind him.

“The follower, he may be the smartest to come along in a long time.”

“Because he’s a cop?”

“Because he probably knows everything about the case that you know.”

• • •

It was cold in the Caprice. At night the canyons always carried a dark chill. Bosch turned the car around and it floated quietly
down Lookout Mountain to Laurel Canyon. He took a right and drove to the canyon market, where he bought a six-pack of Anchor
Steam. Then he took his beer and his questions back up the hill to Mulholland.

He drove to Woodrow Wilson Drive and then down to his small house that stood on cantilevers and looked out across the Cahuenga
Pass. He had left no lights on inside because with Sylvia in his life he never knew how long he would go without being here.

He opened the first beer as soon as the Caprice was parked at the curb in front. A car slowly went by and left him in the
dark. He watched one of the beams from the spotlights at Universal City cut across the clouds over the house. Another one
chased after it a few seconds later. The beer felt and tasted good going down his throat. But it felt heavy in his stomach
and Bosch stopped drinking. He put the bottle back in its carton.

But it wasn’t the beer, he knew, that was really bothering him. It was Ray Mora. Of all the people who were close enough to
the case to know the details of the program, Mora was the one who jabbed at Bosch’s gut. The follower’s three victims were
porno actresses. And that was Mora’s gig. He probably knew them all. The question that was now beginning to push its way into
Bosch’s mind was, did he kill them all? It bothered him to even think about it, but he knew he had to. Mora was a logical
starting point when Bosch considered Locke’s advice. The vice cop stood out in Bosch’s mind as someone who easily intersected
both worlds: the porn trade and the Dollmaker’s. Was it just coincidence or enough to classify Mora as an actual suspect?
Bosch wasn’t sure. He knew he had to proceed as cautiously with an innocent man as he would with a guilty man.

• • •

Inside, the place smelled musty. He went directly to the rear sliding door and opened it. He stood there for a moment listening
to the hissing sound of traffic coming up from the freeway at the bottom of the pass. The sound never died. No matter what
time, what day, there was always traffic down there, blood coursing through the veins of the city.

The light on the answering machine was blinking the number three. Bosch hit rewind and lit a cigarette. The first voice was
Sylvia’s: “I just want to say good-night, sweetheart. I love you and be careful.”

Jerry Edgar was next: “Harry, it’s Edgar. Wanted to let you know, I’m off it. Irving called me at home and told me to turn
everything I’ve got over to RHD in the morning. To a Lieutenant Rollenberger. Take care, buddy. And watch six.”

Watch six, Bosch thought. Watch your back. He hadn’t heard that one since Vietnam. And he knew Edgar had never been there.

“It’s Ray,” the last voice on the tape said. “I’ve been thinking about this concrete blonde job and have a few ideas you might
be interested in. Call me in the morning and we’ll talk.”

“I want a continuance.”

“What?”

“You have to get the trial delayed. Tell the judge.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Bosch?”

Bosch and Belk were sitting at the defense table, waiting for the Thursday morning court session to begin. They were speaking
in loud whispers and Bosch thought that when Belk cursed, it came off as sounding too contrived, as if he were a sixth-grader
trying to fit in with the eighth-graders.

“I am talking about that witness yesterday, Wieczorek, he was right.”

“About what?”

“The alibi, Belk. The alibi on the eleventh victim. It’s legit. Church didn’t —”

“Wait a minute,” Belk yelped. Then in a low whisper he said, “If you are about to confess to me that you killed the wrong
guy, I don’t want to hear it, Bosch. Not now. It’s too late.”

He turned back to his legal tablet.

“Belk, listen goddammit, I’m not confessing anything. I got the right guy. But we missed something. Another guy. There were
two killers. Church is good for nine — the nine we tied up on the makeup comparisons. The other two, and the one we found
in the concrete this week, were done by somebody else. You have to stop this thing until we figure out what exactly is going
on. If it comes out in court it will tip the second killer, the follower, to how close we are to him.”

Belk threw his pen down on the pad and it bounced off the table. He didn’t get up to get it.

“I’m going to tell you what’s going on, Bosch. We are not stopping anything. Even if I wanted to, I probably couldn’t — the
judge is in her pants. All she needs to do is object and no sale, no delay. So I’m not even going to bring it up. You have
to understand something, Bosch, this is a trial. This is the controlling factor of your universe right now. You don’t control
it. You can’t expect the trial to recess every time you need to change your story…”

“You finished?”

“Yes, I’m finished.”

“Belk, I understand everything you just said. But we have to protect the investigation. There is another guy out there killing
people. And if Chandler puts me or Edgar up there and starts asking questions, the killer is going to read about it and know
everything we’ve got. We’ll never get him then. You want that?”

“Bosch, my duty is to win this case. If in doing that, it compromises your —”

“Yeah, but don’t you want to know the truth, Belk? I think we’re close. Delay it until next week and by then we’ll have it
together. We’ll be able to come in here and blow Money Chandler out of the water.”

Bosch leaned back, away from him. He was tired of fighting him.

“Bosch, how long you been a cop?” Belk asked without looking at him. “Twenty years?”

That was close. But Bosch didn’t answer. He knew what was coming.

“And you’re going to sit there and talk to me about truth? When was the last time you saw a truthful police report? When was
the last time that you put down the unadulterated truth in a search warrant application? Don’t tell me about truth. You want
truth, go see a priest or something. I don’t know where to go, but don’t come in here. After twenty on the job you should
know, the truth has got nothing to do with what goes on in here. Neither does justice. Just words in a law book I read in
my previous life.”

Belk turned away and took another pen out of his shirt pocket.

“Okay, Belk, you’re the man. But I’m going to tell you how it’s going to look when it comes out. It’s going to come out in
bits and pieces and it will look bad. That’s Chandler’s specialty. It will look like I hit the wrong guy.”

Belk was ignoring him, writing on his yellow pad.

“You fool, she is going to stick it into us so deep it’s going to come out the other side. You keep writing her off as having
the judge’s hand on her ass, but we both know that’s how you deal with the fact that you couldn’t carry her lunch. For the
last time, get a delay.”

Belk stood up and walked around the table to pick up the fallen pen. After straightening up, he adjusted his tie and his cuffs
and sat back down. He leaned over his pad and without looking at Bosch said, “You’re just afraid of her, aren’t you, Bosch?
Don’t want to be on the stand with the cunt asking questions. Questions that might expose you for what you are: a cop who
likes killing people.”

Now he turned and looked at Bosch.

“Well, it’s too late. Your time has come and there is no backing away. No delays. Show time.”

Harry stood up and bent over the fat man.

“Fuck you, Belk. I’m going outside.”

“That’s nice,” Belk said. “You know, you guys are all the same. You blow some guy away and then come in here and think that
just because you wear that badge that you have some kind of a divine right to do whatever you want. That badge is the biggest
power trip going.”

Bosch went out to the bank of phones and called Edgar. He picked up on the homicide table after one ring.

“I got your message last night.”

“Yeah, well, that’s all there is. I’m gone. RHD came up this morning and took my file. Saw them snoopin’ around your spot,
too, but they didn’t take anything.”

“Who came?”

“Sheehan and Opelt. You know ’em?”

“Yeah, they’re okay. You coming over here on the subpoena?”

“Yeah, I gotta be there by ten.”

Bosch saw the door to courtroom 4 open and the deputy marshal leaned out and signaled to him.

“I gotta go.”

Back in the courtroom, Chandler was at the lectern and the judge was speaking. The jury was not in the box yet.

“What about the other subpoenas?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor, my office is in the process of notifying those people this morning, releasing them.”

“Very well, then. Mr. Belk, ready to proceed?”

As Bosch came through the gate Belk passed him on the way to the lectern without even looking at him.

“Your Honor, since this is unexpected, I would ask for a half-hour recess so I can consult with my client. We would be ready
to proceed after that.”

“Very well, we’re going to do exactly that. Recess for a half hour. I’ll see all parties back here then. And Mr. Bosch? I
expect you to be in your place there, the next time I come out ready to begin. I don’t like sending marshals up and down the
halls when the defendant knows where he ought to be and when he ought to be there.”

Bosch said nothing.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” Belk said for him.

They stood as the judge left the bench and Belk said, “Let’s go down the hall to one of the lawyer-client conference rooms.”

“What happened?”

“Let’s go down the hall.”

As he was going through the courtroom door, Bremmer was coming in, holding his notebook and pen.