Michael Connelly (140 page)

“I don’t care what I said or you said. Look, if the guy sent me a note, it would’ve just been a copy of what you already got.
He wouldn’t waste his time writing a new one.”

“I appreciate you at least telling me that, but even a copy could be helpful. There could be fingerprints. The copy paper
might be traceable.”

“Detective Bosch, how many times did you pull prints from the other letters he sent?”

Bosch didn’t answer.

“That’s what I figured,” she said. “Have a good weekend.”

She turned and pushed her way through the exit door. Bosch waited a few seconds, put a cigarette in his mouth and went out
himself.

• • •

Sheehan and Opelt were in the conference room filling in Rollenberger on their surveillance shift. Edgar was also sitting
at the round table listening. Bosch saw he had a photo of Mora on the table in front of him. It was a face shot, like the
one the department takes of every cop every year when they reissue ID cards.

“If it happens, it’s not going to happen during the day anyway,” Sheehan was saying. “So maybe tonight they’ll have good luck.”

“All right,” Rollenberger said. “Just type something up for the chron log and you guys can call it a day. I’ll need it because
I have a briefing with Chief Irving at five. But remember, you’re both on call tonight. It’s going to be all hands. If Mora
starts acting hinky I want you to get back out there with Mayfield and Yde.”

“Right,” Opelt said.

While Opelt sat down at the lone typewriter Rollenberger had requisitioned, Sheehan poured them cups of coffee from the Mr.
Coffee that had appeared on the counter behind the round table sometime during the afternoon. Hans Off wasn’t much of a cop
but he could sure set up an Ops Center, Bosch thought. He poured himself a cup and joined Sheehan and Edgar at the table.

“I missed most of that,” he said to Sheehan. “Sounds like nothing happened.”

“Right. After you dropped by, he went back out to the Valley in the afternoon and stopped by a bunch of different offices
and warehouses in Canoga Park and Northridge. We’ve got the addresses if you want ’em. They were all porno distributors. Never
stayed more than a half hour at any of them but we don’t know what he was doing. Then he came back, did a little office work
and went home.”

Bosch assumed Mora was checking with other producers, trying to hunt down more victims, maybe asking about the mystery man
Gallery had described four years ago. He asked Sheehan where Mora lived and wrote down the Sierra Bonita Avenue address in
his notebook. He wanted to warn Sheehan about how close he had come to blowing the operation at the taco stand but didn’t
want to do so in front of Rollenberger. He’d mention it later.

“Anything new?” he asked Edgar.

“Nothing on the survivor, yet,” Edgar answered. “I’m leaving in five minutes to go up to Sepulveda. The girls do a lot of
rush-hour work up there, maybe I’ll see her, pick her up.”

Having gotten the updates from everyone else, Bosch told the detectives in the room about the information he had gotten from
Mora and what Locke thought of it. At the end, Rollenberger whistled at the information as if it were a beautiful woman.

“Man, the chief should know this pronto. He might want to double up on the surveillance.”

“Mora’s a cop,” Bosch said. “The more bodies you put on the watch, the better chance he has of making them. If he knows we’re
watching him, you can forget the whole thing.”

Rollenberger thought about this and nodded, but said, “Well, we still have to let the man know what’s developing. Tell you
what, nobody go anywhere for a few minutes. I’ll see if I can get with him a little early and we’ll see where we go from there.”

He stood up with some papers in his hand and knocked on the door leading to Irving’s office. He then opened it and disappeared
through.

“Dipshit,” Sheehan said after the door was closed. “Goin’ in for a little mouth-to-ass resuscitation.”

Everybody laughed.

“Hey, you two,” Bosch said to Sheehan and Opelt. “Mora mentioned your little meeting at the taco stand.”

“Shit!” Opelt exclaimed.

“I think he bought the kosher burrito line,” Bosch said and started laughing. “Until he tasted one! He couldn’t get why you
guys’d come all the way over from Parker for one of those shitty things. He threw half of his out. So if he sees you again
out there, he’ll put it together. Watch your ass.”

“We will,” Sheehan said. “That was Opelt’s idea, that kosher burrito shit. He —”

“What? What’d you want me to say? The guy we’re watching suddenly walks up to the car and says, ‘What’s happening, boys?’
I had to think of —”

The door opened and Rollenberger came back in. He went to his place but didn’t sit down. Instead, he put both hands on the
table and sternly leaned forward as if he had just been given orders from God.

“I’ve brought the chief up to date. He’s very pleased with everything we’ve come up with in just twenty-four hours. He is
concerned about losing Mora, especially with the shrink saying we are at the end of the cycle, but he doesn’t want to change
the surveillance. Adding another team doubles the chance Mora will see something. I think he’s right. It’s a very good idea
to maintain status quo. We —”

Edgar tried to hold back a laugh but couldn’t. It sounded more like a sneeze.

“Detective Edgar, something funny?”

“No, I think I’m getting a cold or something. Go on, please.”

“Well, that’s it. Proceed as planned. I will inform the other surveillance teams of what Bosch has come up with. We have Rector
and Heikes taking the midnight shift, then the presidents tomorrow morning at eight.”

The presidents were a pair of RHD partners named Johnson and Nixon. They didn’t like being called the presidents, especially
Nixon.

“Sheehan, Opelt, you are back on tomorrow at four. You’ve got Saturday night, so be bright. Bosch, Edgar, still freelancing.
See what you can come up with. Keep your pagers on and the rovers handy. We might need to pull everybody together on short
notice.”

“OT approved?” Edgar asked.

“All weekend. But if you’re on the clock, I want to see the work. Only humps on this job, no freeloading. All right, that’s
it.”

Rollenberger sat down then and pulled his chair close to the table. Bosch figured it was to cover up an erection, he seemed
to get off so much on being the taskmaster here. All of them but Hans Off pushed into the hallway then and headed to the elevator.

“Who’s drinking tonight?” Sheehan asked.

“More like, who isn’t,” Opelt answered.

• • •

Bosch got to his house by seven, after having only one beer at the Code Seven and finding that the alcohol was a turn-off
after the overindulgence of the night before. He called Sylvia and told her there was no verdict yet. He said he was going
to shower and change clothes and he would be up to see her by eight.

His hair was still damp when she opened her door. She grabbed him as soon as he stepped in and they held each other and kissed
in the entry of her house for a long time. It was only when she stepped back that he saw she was wearing a black dress with
a neckline that cut deeply between her breasts and a hemline about four inches over her knees.

“How’d it go today, the closing arguments and all?”

“Fine. What are you all dressed up for?”

“Because I am taking you out to dinner. I made reservations.”

She leaned into him and kissed him on the mouth.

“Harry, last night was the best night we’ve ever had together. It was the best night I can remember with anyone. And not because
of the sex. Actually, you and I have done better.”

“Always room for improvement. How ’bout a little practice before dinner?”

She smiled and told him there was no time.

They drove down through the Valley and into Malibu Canyon to the Saddle Peak Lodge. It was an old hunting lodge and the menu
featured a vegetarian’s nightmare. It was all meat, from venison to buffalo. They each had a steak and Sylvia ordered a bottle
of Merlot. Bosch sipped his slowly. He thought the meal and the evening were wonderful. They talked little about the case
or anything else. They did a lot of looking at each other.

When they returned to her house, Sylvia turned down the air-conditioner thermostat and built a fire in the living room fireplace.
He just watched her; he had never been good at building fires that lasted. Even with the AC on sixty it got very warm. They
made love on a blanket she spread out in front of the fireplace. They were perfectly relaxed and moved smoothly together.

Afterward, he watched the fire reflect on the light sheen of sweat on her chest. He kissed her there and put his head down
to listen to her heart. The rhythm was strong and it beat counterpoint to his own. He closed his eyes and started thinking
of ways to guard against ever losing this woman.

The fire was nothing but a few glowing embers when he woke up in the darkness. There was a shrill sound and he was very cold.

“Your beeper,” Sylvia said.

He crawled to the pile of clothes near the couch, traced the sound and cut it off.

“God, what time is it?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s scary. I remember when —”

She stopped herself. Bosch knew it was a story about her husband that she was about to tell. She must have decided not to
let his memory intrude here. But it was too late. Bosch found himself wondering if Sylvia and her husband had ever turned
down the thermostat on a summer night and made love in front of the fireplace on that same blanket.

“Aren’t you going to call?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I’m, uh, just trying to wake up.”

He pulled his pants on and went into the kitchen. He slid the door closed so the light would not bother her. After flicking
the switch he looked at the clock on the wall. It was a plate and where the numbers should be were different vegetables. It
was half past the carrot, meaning one-thirty. He realized he and Sylvia had been asleep only about an hour. It had seemed
like days.

The number had an 818 area code and he didn’t recognize it. Jerry Edgar picked up after a half ring.

“Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry to bother you, man, especially since you’re not home.”

“It’s okay. What’s up?”

“I’m on Sepulveda just south of Roscoe. I got her, man.”

Bosch knew he was talking about the survivor.

“What’d she say? She look at Mora’s picture?”

“No. No, man, I don’t really have her. I’m watching her. She’s on the stroll here.”

“Well, why don’t you pick her up?”

“Because I’m alone. I think I could use some backup. I try to take her alone she might bite or something. You know, she’s
got AIDS.”

Bosch was silent. Through the phone he could hear cars passing Edgar.

“Hey, man, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve called. I thought you might want to get in on this. I’ll call the Van Nuys watch commander
and get a couple uniforms out here. Have a good —”

“Forget it, I’ll be there. Give me half an hour. You been out there all night?”

“Yeah. Went home for dinner. I’ve been looking all over. Didn’t see her till now.”

Bosch hung up wondering if Edgar had really missed her until now or if he was just filling his overtime envelope. He walked
back into the living room. The light was on and Sylvia was not on the blanket.

She was in her bed, under the covers.

“I gotta go out,” he said.

“I thought that’s what it sounded like, so I decided to come in here. Nothing romantic about sleeping on the floor in front
of a dead fireplace by yourself.”

“Are you mad?”

“Of course not, Harry.”

He leaned over the bed and kissed her and she put her hand on the back of his neck.

“I’ll try to get back.”

“Okay. Can you turn the thermostat back up on your way out? I forgot.”

• • •

Edgar was parked in front of a Winchell’s Donuts store, apparently not realizing the comic implications of this. Bosch parked
behind him and then got in his car.

“Whereyat, Harry?”

“Where’s she at?”

Edgar pointed across the street and up a block and a half. At the intersection of Roscoe and Sepulveda there was a bus bench
with two women sitting on it and three standing nearby.

“She’s the one in red shorts.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I drove up to the light and eyeballed her. It’s her. Problem is, we might have a cat fight if we go over there and
try to take her. All them girls are working. The Sepulveda bus line stops running at one.”

Bosch saw the one in the red shorts and tank top lift her shirt as a car drove by on Sepulveda. The car braked but then, after
a moment of driver hesitation, went on.

“She had any business?”

“A few hours ago she had one guy. Walked him into that alley behind the mini-mall, did him there. Other than that it’s been
dry. She’s too skaggy for your discerning john.”

Edgar laughed. Bosch thought about how Edgar had just slipped up by saying he had been watching her for a few hours. Well,
he thought, at least he didn’t beep me while the fire was going.

“So if you don’t want a cat fight, what’s the plan?”

“I was thinking you’d drive up to Roscoe and take a left. Then come into the alley from the back way. You wait there and get
down low. I’ll walk over and tell her I want the nasty and she’ll walk me back. Then we take her. But watch her mouth. She
might be a spitter, too.”

“Okay, let’s get it over with.”

Ten minutes later Bosch was slouched behind the wheel and parked in the alley, when Edgar came walking in from the street.
Alone.

“What?”

“She made me.”

“Well, shit, why didn’t you just take her? If she made you there’s nothing else we can do, she’ll know I’m a cop if I try
her again five minutes later.”

“All right, she didn’t make me.”

“What’s going on?”

“She wouldn’t go with me. She asked if I had some brown sugar to trade and when I said no, no drugs, she said she doesn’t
do colored dick. You believe that shit? I haven’t been called colored since I grew up in Chicago.”