Michael Connelly (137 page)

Rollenberger was looking at a logbook in front of him on the table.

“After that he went to a couple houses in Studio City. There were vans outside of these houses and Sheehan and Opelt said
they thought they might be making movies at these locations. He didn’t stay long at either place. Anyway, he’s back over at
Ad-Vice now. Sheehan called in a couple minutes ago.”

“Did we get the extra people?”

“Yeah, Mayfield and Yde will take the watch at four from the first team. Then we’ve got two other teams after that.”

“Two?”

“Chief Irving changed his mind and wants an around-the-clock watch. So we’ll be on him through the night, even if he just
stays at home and sleeps. Personally, I think it’s a good idea that we go ‘round the clock.”

Yeah, especially since Irving decided to do it, Bosch thought but didn’t say. He looked at the radios on the table.

“What’s our freek?”

“Uh, we’re on … frequency, frequency — oh, yeah, we’re on five. Symplex five. It’s a DWP communications freek that they only
use during a public emergency. Earthquake, flooding, stuff like that. Chief thought it be best to keep off our own freeks.
If Mora is our man, then he might be keeping an ear to the radio.”

Bosch thought Rollenberger probably thought it was a good idea, but didn’t ask him.

“I think it’s a good idea to play it safe this way,” the lieutenant said.

“Right. Anything else I should know?” He looked at Edgar, who was still on the phone. “What’s Edgar got?”

“Still trying to locate the survivor from four years ago. He already pulled a copy of Mora’s divorce file. It was uncontested.”

Edgar hung up, finished writing something in a notebook and then stood up without looking at Bosch. He said, “I’m going down
to get a cup.”

“Okay,” Rollenberger said. “We should have our own coffeemaker in here by this afternoon. I talked it over with the chief
and he was going to requisition one.”

Bosch said, “Good idea. I think I’m going down with Edgar.”

Edgar walked quickly down the hallway so that he could stay ahead of Bosch. At the elevator he pushed the button but then
without breaking stride walked past the elevator and into the stairwell to go down. Bosch followed and after they had gone
down one floor, Edgar stopped and whipped around.

“What are you following me for?”

“Coffee.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Did —”

“No, I didn’t talk to Pounds yet. I’ve been busy, remember?”

“Good, then don’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you haven’t talked to Pounds about it, then don’t. Forget about it.”

“Serious?”

“Yeah.”

He stood there looking at Bosch, still skeptical.

“Learn from it. So will I. I already have. Okay?”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“No, don’t ‘Thanks, Harry’ me. Just say ‘okay.’”

“Okay.”

They walked down to the next floor and to the cafeteria. Rather than sit in front of Rollenberger and talk, Bosch suggested
they take their coffee to one of the tables.

“Hans Off, what a trip, man,” Edgar said. “I keep picturing this cuckoo clock, only it’s him that comes out and says, ‘Great
idea, Chief! Great idea, Chief!’”

Bosch smiled and Edgar laughed. Harry could tell a great burden had been lifted off the man and so he was heartened by what
he had done. He felt good about it.

“So, nothing on the survivor yet?” he said.

“She’s out there somewhere. But the four years since she escaped from the Follower have not been good to Georgia Stern.”

“What happened?”

“Well, by reading her sheet and talking to some guys in street vice, it looks like she got on the needle. After that, she
probably got too skaggy-looking to make movies. I mean, who wants to watch a film like that and the girl’s got track marks
up her arms or her thighs or her neck. That’s the problem with the porno business if you’re a hype. You’re naked, man, you
can’t hide that shit.

“Anyway, I talked to Mora, just to make a routine contact and to tell him I was looking for her. He kinda gave me that rundown
on how needle marks are the quickest way out of the business. But he had nothing else. You think that was cool, talking to
him?”

Bosch considered it a few moments and then said, “Yeah, I do. Best way to keep him from being suspicious is to act like he
knows as much as we do. If you hadn’t asked him and then he heard from a source or somebody else in vice that you were looking
for her, then he’d probably tumble to us.”

“Yeah, that’s the way I figured it, so I called him this morning and asked a few questions and then went on. Far as he knows,
you and me are the only ones working this new case. He doesn’t know anything about our task force. So far.”

“Only problem with asking him about the survivor is that if he knows you’re looking, he may go looking for her. We’ll have
to be careful about that. Let the surveillance teams know.”

“Yeah, I will. Maybe Hans Off can tell ’em. You ought to hear this guy on the rovers, sounds like a fuckin’ Eagle Scout.”

Bosch smiled. He imagined Hans Off cut no slack in the use of radio code designations.

“Anyway, so that’s why she isn’t in the porno biz anymore,” Edgar said, getting back to the survivor. “In the last three years,
we got check charges, a couple of possessions, a couple prostitution rousts and many, many under-the-influence beefs. She’s
been in and out. Always time served, never anything serious. Two, three days at a time. Not enough to help her kick, either.”

“So where’s she work?”

“The Valley. I’ve been on the phone with Valley Vice all morning. They say she usually works the Sepulveda corridor with the
other street pros.”

Bosch remembered the young women he had seen the other afternoon while tracing down Cerrone, Rebecca Kaminski’s manager/pimp.
He wondered if he had seen or even talked to Georgia Stern and not known it.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I was out there the other day and was wondering if I’d seen her. You know, not knowing who she was. Did the vice
guys say whether she had protection?”

“Nah, no pimp that they know of. I got the idea she’s bottom drawer stuff. Most pimps have better ponies.”

“So, is Vice up there looking for her?”

“Not yet,” Edgar said. “They have training today, but they’ll be out on Sepulveda tomorrow night.”

“Any recent photos?”

“Yeah.”

Edgar reached into his sport coat and pulled out a stack of photos. They were copies of a booking photo. Georgia Stern certainly
looked used up. Her bleached-blonde hair showed at least an inch of dark roots. There were circles under her eyes so deep
they looked as though they had been cut into her face with a knife. Her cheeks were gaunt and she was glassy-eyed. Lucky for
her she had fixed before she was busted. It meant less time in the cage hurting, waiting and craving the next fix.

“This is three months old. Under the influence. She did two in Sybil and out.”

Sybil Brand Institute was the county’s holding jail for women. Half of it was equipped to handle narcotics addicts.

“Get this,” Edgar said. “I forgot about this. This guy Dean up in Valley Vice says he was the one who made this bust on her
and when he was booking her he found a bottle of powder and was just about ready to run her ticket up to possession when he
realized the bottle was a legit scrip. He said the powder was AZT. You know, for AIDS. She’s got the virus, man, and she’s
out there on the street. On Sepulveda. He asked her if she makes ’em use rubbers and her answer was, ‘Not if they don’t want
to.’”

Bosch just nodded. The story was not unusual. It had been Bosch’s experience that most prostitutes despised the men they waved
down and serviced for money. Those who became sick got it either from their customers or from dirty needles, which also sometimes
came from customers. Either way, he believed it was part of the psychology to not care about passing it on to the population
that may have given it to you. It was the belief that what goes around comes around.

“Not if they don’t want to,” Edgar said again, shaking his head. “I mean, man, that’s cold.”

Bosch finished his coffee and pushed his chair back. There was no smoking in the cafeteria so he wanted to go down to the
lobby and out by the fallen-officers memorial to smoke. As long as Rollenberger was camped out in the conference room, smoking
there was out.

“So —”

Bosch’s pager went off and he visibly flinched. He had always subscribed to the theory that a quick verdict was a bad verdict
was a stupid verdict. Hadn’t they given the evidence careful consideration? He pulled it off his belt and looked at the number
on the display. He breathed easier. It was an LAPD exchange.

“I think Mora is calling me.”

“Better be careful. What were you going to say?”

“Uh, oh, yeah, I was just wondering if Stern will be any good to us if we find her. It’s been four years. She’s on the spike
and sick. I wonder if she’ll even remember the Follower.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that, too. But my only alternatives are to go back to Hollywood and report to Pounds or volunteer for
one of the surveillance shifts on Mora. I’m sticking on this. I’m going up there to Sepulveda tonight.”

Bosch nodded.

“Hans Off said you pulled the divorce. Nothing there?”

“Not really. She filed but then Mora didn’t contest it. File’s about ten pages, that’s it. Only one thing of note in it, and
I don’t know if it means anything or not.”

“What?”

“She filed on the usual grounds. Irreconcilable differences, mental cruelty. But in the records, she also mentions the loss
of consortium. You know what that is?”

“No sex.”

“Yeah. What do you think that means?”

Bosch thought for a few moments and said, “I don’t know. They split just before the Dollmaker stuff. Maybe he was into some
strange stuff, building up to the killings. I can ask Locke.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Anyway, I had DMV run the wife and she’s still alive. But I was thinking we shouldn’t approach
her. Too dangerous. She might tip him.”

“Yeah, don’t go near her. Did DMV fax her DL?”

“Yeah. She’s blonde. Five-foot-four, hundred and ten. It was only a face shot on the driver’s license but I’d say she fits.”

Bosch nodded and stood up.

• • •

After taking one of the rovers from the conference room, Bosch drove over to Central Division and parked in the back lot.
He was still within the fifteen-minute radius of the federal courthouse. He left the rover in the car and walked out to the
sidewalk and around front to the public entrance. He did this so he could see if he could spot Sheehan and Opelt. He assumed
they would have to be parked within sight of the lot’s exit so they would see Mora leaving, but he did not see them or any
car that looked suspicious.

A pair of headlights briefly flashed from a parking lot behind an old gas station that was now a taco stand, featuring a sign
that said HOME OF THE KOSHER BURRITO — PASTRAMI! He saw two figures in the car, which was a gray Eldorado, and just looked
away.

Mora was at his desk eating a burrito that looked disgusting to Bosch because he could see it was filled with pastrami. It
looked unnatural.

“Harry,” he said with his mouth full.

“How is it?”

“It’s okay. I’ll go back to plain beef after this. I just tried it ’cause I saw a couple guys from RHD over across the street.
One of ’em said they come all the way over from Parker to get these kosher things there. Thought I’d give it a try.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of that place.”

“Well, you ask me, it ain’t worth coming over from Parker Center for.”

He wrapped what was left in the oil-stained paper it came in and then got up and walked out of the squad room. Bosch heard
the package hit the bottom of a trash can in the hallway and then Mora was back.

“Don’t want it to stink up my trash can.”

“So, you buzzed?”

“Yeah, that was me. How’s the trial?”

“Waiting on a verdict.”

“Shit, that’s scary.”

Bosch knew from experience that if Mora wanted to tell you something, he would tell you in his own time. It would do him no
good to keep asking the vice cop why he beeped him.

Back in his chair, Mora swiveled around to the filing cabinets behind him and began opening drawers. Over his shoulder, he
said, “Hang on, Harry. I gotta get some stuff together for you here.”

It took him two minutes during which Bosch saw him open several different files, take out photos and create a short stack.
Then he turned back around.

“Four,” he said. “I’ve come up with four more actresses that dropped out under what might be termed suspicious circumstances.”

“Only four.”

“Yeah. Actually, there were more than four chicks that people mentioned. But only four fit that profile we talked about. Blonde
and built. There is also Gallery, who we already knew about, and your concrete blonde. So we’ve got six altogether. Here are
the new ones.”

He handed the group of photos across the desk to Bosch. Harry slowly looked through them. They were color publicity glossies
with each woman’s name printed in the white border at the bottom of the photo. Two of the women were naked and posing indoors
on chairs, their legs apart. The other two were photographed at the beach and were wearing bikinis that would probably be
illegal on most public beaches. To Bosch, the women in the photos almost looked interchangeable. Their bodies were similar.
Their faces had the same fake pouts that were intended to show mystery and sexual abandonment at the same time. Each of the
women had hair so blonde it was nearly white.

“All Snow Whites,” Mora said, an unneeded commentary that made Bosch look up from the photos to look at him. The vice cop
just stared back and said, “You know, the hair. That’s what a producer calls them when he’s casting movies. He says he wants
a Snow White for this part ’cause he already has a red or whatever. Snow White. It’s like the model name. These chicks are
all interchangeable.”