The Harry Bosch Novels

  “Am I under arrest?” Locke asked when Edgar was done.

  “Not yet,” said Edgar.

  “We just need to clear some things up,” Bosch said.

  “I resent the hell out of this.”

  “I understand. Now, do you want to clear this trip to Vegas up? Was there anyone with you?”

  “From six o’clock Friday until I got out of my car down the block ten minutes ago, there has been a person with me every minute of every day except when I was in the bathroom. This is ridic —”

  “And that is who, this person?”

  “It’s a friend of mine. Her name is Melissa Mencken.”

  Bosch remembered the young woman named Melissa who was in Locke’s front office.

  “The child-psych major? From your office? The blonde?”

  “That’s right,” Locke answered reluctantly.

  “And she will tell us you were together the whole time? Same room, same hotel, same everything, right?”

  “Yes. She’ll confirm it all. We were just coming back when we heard about this on the radio. KFWB. She’s out there waiting for me in the car. Go talk to her.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “It’s the blue Jag. Look, Harry, you go talk to her and clear this up. If you don’t make noise about me being with a student, I won’t make a sound about this … this interrogation.”

  “This is no interrogation, Doctor. Believe me, if we interrogate you, you’ll know it.”

  He nodded to Edgar, who slipped out the door to go find the Jag. When they were alone, Bosch pulled a high-backed chair away from the wall and sat down in front of the desk to wait.

  “What happened to the suspect you were following, Harry?”

  “We did.”

  “What’s that supposed to —”

  “Never mind.”

  They sat in silence for nearly five minutes until Edgar stuck his head in the door and signaled Bosch to come out.

  “Checks out, Harry. I talked to the girl and her story is the same. There also were credit card receipts in the car. They checked into the MGM Saturday at three. There was a gas receipt in Victorville, had the time on it. Nine o’clock in the morning Saturday. Victorville’s what, an hour away. Looks like they were on the road when Chandler got it. Besides, the girl says they also spent Friday night together at his house in the hills. We can do some more checking but I think he’s being legit with us.”

  “Well …,” Bosch said, not completing the thought. “Why don’t you go up and spread the word that he looks clear. I want to take him up to look around, if he still wants to.”

  “Will do.”

  Bosch went back into the study. He sat in the chair that was in front of the desk. Locke studied him.

  “Well?”

  “She’s too scared, Locke. She isn’t going along. She’s telling us the truth.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Locke yelled.

  Now Bosch studied him. The surprise on his face, the utter fright, was too genuine. Bosch was sure now. He was sorry, yet felt some perverse feeling of power, having run Locke through the scam.

  “You’re clear, Dr. Locke. Just had to be sure. I guess the criminal only comes back to the scene of the crime in movies.”

  Locke took a deep breath and looked down into his lap. Bosch thought he looked like a driver who had just pulled to the side of the road to collect himself after missing a head-on collision with a truck by a matter of inches.

  “Goddammit, Bosch, for a minute there, I had bad dreams, you know?”

  Bosch nodded. He knew about bad dreams.

  “Edgar’s going up to smooth the way. He’s going to ask the lieutenant if you can go up and give a read on the scene. If you still want to.”

  “Excellent,” he said, but there wasn’t much excitement left in him.

  They sat in silence after that. Bosch took out his cigarettes and found the pack empty. But he put the pack back in his pocket so as not to leave false evidence in the trash can.

  He didn’t feel like talking to Locke anymore. Instead, he looked past him and out the window at the activity on the street. The media pack had dispersed after the briefing. Now some of the TV reporters were taping their reports with the “death house” behind them. Bosch could see Bremmer interviewing the neighbors across the street and writing feverishly in his notebook.

  Edgar came in then and said, “We’re ready for him upstairs.”

  Staring out the window, Bosch said, “Jerry, can you take him up? I just thought of something I need to do.”

  Locke stood up and looked at the two detectives.

  “Fuck you,” he said. “Both of you. Fuck you. … There, I just had to say that. Now, let’s forget about it and go to work.”

  He crossed the room to Edgar. Bosch stopped him at the door.

  “Dr. Locke?”

  He turned back to Bosch.

  “When we catch this guy, he’ll want to gloat, won’t he?”

  Locke thought for a while and said, “Yes, he’ll be very pleased with himself, his accomplishments. That might be the hardest part for him, keeping quiet when he knows he should. He’ll want to gloat.”

  They left then and Bosch looked out the window for a few more minutes before getting up.

  • • •

  Some of the reporters who knew who he was pressed against the yellow tape and began shouting questions as he came out. He ducked under the tape and said he could make no comment and that Chief Irving was coming out soon. That seemed to mollify them temporarily and he started walking down the street to his car.

  He knew Bremmer was the master of the anti-pack. He always let the pack move in and do their thing, then he came in after, by himself, to get what he wanted. Bosch wasn’t mistaken. Bremmer showed up at the car.

  “Pullin’ out already, Harry?”

  “No, I just need to get something.”

  “Pretty bad in there?”

  “Is this on or off the record?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  Bosch opened the car door.

  “Off the record, yes, it’s pretty bad in there. On the record, no comment.”

  He leaned in and made a show of looking in the glove compartment and not finding what he wanted.

  “What are you guys calling this one? I mean, you know, since the Doll-maker was already taken.”

  Bosch got back out.

  “The Follower. That’s off the record, too. Ask Irving.”

  “Catchy.”

  “Yeah, I thought you reporters would like that.”

  Bosch pulled the empty cigarette pack out of his pocket, crumpled it and threw it into the car and closed the door.

  “Give me a smoke, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  Bremmer pulled a soft pack of Marlboros out of his sport coat and shook one out for Bosch. Then he lit it for him with a Zippo. With his left hand.

  “Hell of a city we live in, Harry, isn’t it.”

  “Yeah. This city…”

  31

  At 7:30 that night, Bosch was sitting in the Caprice in the back parking lot of St. Vibiana’s in downtown. From his angle, he could look a half block up Second Street to the corner at Spring. But he couldn’t see the Times building. That didn’t matter, though. He knew that every Times employee without parking privileges in the executive garage would have to cross the corner of Spring and Second to get to one of the employee garages a half block down Spring. He was waiting for Bremmer.

  After leaving the scene at Honey Chandler’s house, Bosch had gone home and slept for two hours. Then he had paced in his house on the hill, thinking about Bremmer and seeing how perfectly he fit the mold. He called Locke and asked a few more general questions about the psychology of the Follower. But he did not tell Locke about Bremmer. He told no one about this, thinking three strikes and you’re out. He came up with a plan, then dropped by Hollywood Division to gas up the Caprice and get the equipment he would need.

  And now he
waited. He watched a steady procession of homeless people walking down Second. As if heeding a siren’s call, they were heading toward the Los Angeles Mission a few blocks away for a meal and a bed. Many carried with them or pushed in shopping carts their life’s belongings.

  Bosch never took his eyes off the corner but his mind drifted far from there. He thought of Sylvia and wondered what she was doing at that moment and what she was thinking. He hoped she didn’t take too long to decide, because he knew his mind’s instinctual protective devices and responses had begun to react. He was already looking at the positives that would come if she didn’t come back. He told himself she made him weak. Hadn’t he thought of her immediately when he found the note from the Follower? Yes, she had made him vulnerable. He told himself she might not be good for his life’s mission, let her go.

  • • •

  His heartbeat jacked up a notch when he saw Bremmer step onto the corner and then walk in the direction of the parking garages. A building blocked Bosch’s view after that. He quickly started the car and pulled out onto Second and up to Spring.

  Down the block Bremmer entered the newer garage with a card key and Bosch watched the auto door and waited. In five minutes a blue Toyota Celica came out of the garage and slowed while the driver checked for traffic on Spring. Bosch could see clearly it was Bremmer. The Celica pulled onto Spring and so did Bosch.

  Bremmer headed west on Beverly and into Hollywood. He made one stop at a Vons and came out fifteen minutes later with a single bag of groceries. He then proceeded to a neighborhood of single-family homes just north of the Paramount studio. He drove down the side of a small stuccoed house and parked in the detached garage in the back. Bosch pulled to the curb one house away and waited.

  All the houses in the neighborhood were one of three basic designs. It was one of the cookie-cutter victory neighborhoods that had sprung up after World War II in the city, with affordable homes for returning servicemen. Now you’d probably need to be making a general’s pay to buy in. The ’80s did that. The occupation army of yuppies had the place now.

  Each lawn had a little tin sign planted in it. They were from three or four different home-security companies but they all said the same thing. ARMED RESPONSE. It was the epitaph of the city. Sometimes Bosch thought the Hollywood sign should be taken down off the hill and replaced with those two words.

  Bosch waited for Bremmer to either come around to the front to check his mail or to put lights on inside the house. When neither happened after five minutes, he got out and approached the driveway, his hand unconsciously tapping his sport coat on the side, making sure he had his Smith & Wesson. It was there, but he kept it holstered.

  The driveway was unlit and in the recessed darkness of the open garage Bosch could only see the faint reflection of the red lenses of the taillights of Bremmer’s car. But there was no sign of Bremmer.

  A six-foot wooden-plank fence ran along the right side of the drive, separating Bremmer’s property from his neighbor’s. Branches of bougainvillea in bloom hung over and Bosch could hear faint television sounds from the house next door.

  As he walked between the fence and Bremmer’s house toward the garage, Bosch knew he was completely vulnerable. But he also knew that drawing his weapon couldn’t help him here. Favoring the side of the drive nearest the house, he walked to the garage and stopped before its darkness. Standing beneath an old basketball goal with a bent rim, he said, “Bremmer?”

  There was no sound save for the ticking of the engine of the car in the garage. Then, from behind, Bosch heard the light scraping of a shoe on concrete. He turned. Bremmer stood there, grocery bag in hand.

  “What are you doing?” Bosch asked.

  “That’s what I should ask.”

  Bosch watched his hands as he spoke.

  “You never called. So I came by.”

  “Called about what?”

  “You wanted a comment about the verdict.”

  “You were supposed to call me. Remember? Doesn’t matter, the story’s been put to bed now. Besides, the verdict kind of took a back seat to the other developments of the day, if you know what I mean. The story on the Follower — and Irving did use that name on the record — is going out front.”

  Bosch took a few steps toward him.

  “Then how come you’re not at the Red Wind? I thought you said you always go for a pop when you hit the front page.”

  Holding the bag in his right arm, Bremmer reached into the pocket of his coat but Bosch heard the sound of keys.

  “I didn’t feel like it tonight. I kind’ve liked Honey Chandler, you know? What are you really doing here, Harry? I saw you following me.”

  “You going to ask me in? Maybe we can have that beer, toast your front-page story. One-A is what you reporters call it, right?”

  “Yeah. This one’s going above the fold.”

  “Above the fold, I like that.”

  They stared at each other in the darkness.

  “Whaddaya say? About the beer.”

  “Sure,” Bremmer said. He turned and went to the house’s back door and unlocked it. He reached in and hit switches that turned on lights over the door and in the kitchen beyond. Then he stepped back and held out his arm for Bosch to go in first.

  “After you. Go into the living room and have a seat. I’ll get a couple bottles and be right there.”

  Bosch walked through the kitchen and down a short hall to the living room and dining room. He didn’t sit down but rather stood near the curtain drawn across one of the front windows. He parted it and looked into the street and at the houses across. There was no one. No one had seen him come here. He wondered if he had made a mistake.

  He looked down at the old-style radiator beneath the window, touched it with his hand. It was cold. Its iron coils had been painted black.

  He stood there for a few more moments and then turned and looked around at the rest of the room. It was nicely furnished with blacks and grays. Bosch sat on a black leather couch. He knew if he arrested Bremmer in the house, he would be able to make a quick cursory search of the premises. If he found anything of an incriminating nature all he had to do was come back with a warrant. Bremmer, being a police and courts reporter, would know that, too. Why’d he let me in? Bosch wondered. Have I made a mistake? He began to lose confidence in his plan.

  Bremmer brought out two bottles, no glasses, and sat in a matching chair to Bosch’s right. Bosch studied his bottle for a long moment. There was a bubble pushing up from the top. It burst and he held the bottle up and said, “Above the fold.”

  “Above the fold,” Bremmer toasted back. He didn’t smile. He took a pull from his bottle and put it down on the coffee table.

  Bosch took a large gulp from his bottle and held it in his mouth. It was ice cold and hurt some of his teeth. There was no known history of the Doll-maker or the Follower using drugs on their victims. He looked at Bremmer, their eyes locked for a moment, and he swallowed. It felt good going down.

  Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he held the bottle in his right hand and looked at Bremmer looking back at him. He knew from talking with Locke that the Follower would not be driven by conscience to admit anything. He had no conscience. The only way was trickery, to play on the killer’s pride. He felt his confidence coming back. He stared at Bremmer with a glare that burned right through him.

  “What is it?” the reporter asked quietly.

  “Tell me you did it for the stories, or the book. To get above the fold, to have a bestseller, whatever. But don’t tell me you’re the sick fuck the shrink says you are.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Skip the bullshit, Bremmer. It’s you and you know I know it’s you. Why else would I waste my time being here?”

  “The Dol — the Follower? You’re saying I’m the Follower? Are you crazy?”

  “Are you? That’s what I want to know.”

  Bremmer was silent for a long time. He seemed to retreat into himself, like a
computer running a long equation, the Please Wait sign flashing. The answer finally registered and his eyes focused again on Bosch.

  “I think you should go, Harry.” He stood up. “It’s very plain to see you’ve been under a lot of pressure with this case and I think —”

  “You’re the one coming apart, Bremmer. You’ve made mistakes. A lot of them.”

  Bremmer suddenly dove into Bosch, rolling so that his left shoulder slammed into Bosch’s chest, pinning him to the couch. Bosch felt air burst from his lungs and sat helplessly as Bremmer worked his hands under Harry’s sport coat and got to the gun. Bremmer then pulled away, switching off the safety and pointing the weapon at Bosch’s face.

  After nearly a minute of silence during which both men simply stared at each other, Bremmer said, “I admit only one thing: You have me intrigued, Harry. But before we go any further with this discussion, there is something I have to do.”

  A sense of relief and anticipation flooded Bosch’s body. He tried not to show it. Instead he tried to put a look of terror on his face. He stared wide-eyed at the gun. Bremmer bent over him and ran his heavy hand down Bosch’s chest and into his crotch, then around his sides. He found no wire.

  “Sorry to get so personal,” he said. “But you don’t trust me and I don’t trust you, right?”

  Bremmer straightened and stepped back and sat down.

  “Now, I don’t need to remind you, but I will. I have the advantage here. So answer my questions. What mistakes? What mistakes have I made? Tell me what I did wrong, Harry, or I’ll kneecap you with the first bullet.”

  Bosch tantalized him with silence for a few moments as he thought about how to proceed.

  “Well,” he finally began. “Let’s go back to the basics first. Four years ago you were all over the Dollmaker case. As a reporter. From the start. It was your stories about the early cases that made the department form the task force. As a reporter you had access to the suspect intelligence, you probably had the autopsy reports. You also had sources like me and probably half the dicks on the task force and in the coroner’s office. What I am saying is you knew what the Dollmaker did. Right down to the cross on the toenail, you knew. Later, after the Dollmaker was dead, you used it in your book.”