He then paged through one of the binders until he found the package on the lone survivor, the woman who had gotten away. She, too, was a porn actress who took outcall sex jobs. Her name was Georgia Stern. Her video name was Velvet Box. She had gone to the Hollywood Star Motel to meet a date arranged through the outcall service she advertised in the local sex tabloids. After she arrived, her client asked her to undress. She turned her back to do this, offering a show of modesty in case that was a turn-on for the client. She then saw the leather strap of her purse come over her head and he began choking her from behind. She fought, as probably all the victims had, but she was able to get free by driving an elbow into her attacker’s ribs, then turning and delivering a kick to his genitals.
She ran naked from the room, all thought of modesty long gone. By the time police went back in, the attacker was gone. It was three days before the reports on the incident filtered their way to the task force. By then the hotel room had been used dozens of times-the Hollywood Star offered hourly rates-and it was useless as far as gathering physical evidence went.
Reading the reports on it now, Bosch realized why the composite drawing that Georgia Stern had helped a police artist sketch was so different from the appearance of Norman Church.
It had been a different man.
An hour later, he turned one of the binders to the last page, where he had kept a listing of phone numbers and addresses of the principals involved in the investigation. He went to the wall phone and dialed the home of Dr. John Locke. He hoped the psychologist had not changed his number in four years.
Locke picked up after five rings.
“Sorry, Dr. Locke, I know it’s getting late. It’s Harry Bosch.”
“Harry, how are you? I am sorry we didn’t get to talk today. It was not the best circumstance for you, I’m sure, but I-”
“Yes, Doctor, listen, something’s come up. It’s related to the Dollmaker. I have some things I want to show you and talk about. Would it be possible for me to come there?”
There was a lengthy silence before Locke answered.
“Would that be about this new case I’ve read about in the paper?”
“Yes, that and some other things.”
“Well, let’s see, it’s nearly ten o’clock. Are you sure this can’t wait until tomorrow morning?”
“I am in court tomorrow morning, Doctor. All day. It’s important. I’d really appreciate your time. I’ll be there before eleven and be out before twelve.”
When Locke didn’t say anything, Harry wondered if the soft-spoken doctor was afraid of him or just didn’t want a killer cop in his home.
“Besides,” Bosch said into the silence, “I think you’ll find it interesting.”
“Very well,” Locke said.
After getting the address, Harry packed all the paperwork back into the two binders. Sylvia came into the kitchen after hesitating at the doorway until she was sure the photos were packed away.
“I heard you talking. Are you going to his place tonight?”
“Yeah, right now. In Laurel Canyon.”
“What’s going on?”
He stopped his hurried movement. He had both binders stacked under his right arm.
“I… well, we missed something. The task force. We messed up. I think all along there were two, but I didn’t see it until now.”
“Two killers?”
“I think so. I want to ask Locke about it.”
“Are you coming back tonight?”
“I don’t know. It will be late. I was thinking about just going to my place. Check my messages, get some fresh clothes.”
“This weekend is not looking good, is it?”
“What-oh, yeah, Lone Pine, yeah. Well, uh, I-”
“Don’t worry about it. But I may want to hang out at your place while they have the open house here.”
“Sure.”
She walked him to the door and opened it. She told him to be careful and to call her the next day. He said he would. At the threshold he hesitated. He said, “You know, you were right.”
“About what?”
“What you said about men.”
14
Laurel Canyon is a winding cut through the Santa Monica Mountains that connects Studio City with Hollywood and the Sunset Strip. On the south side, where the road drops below Mulholland Drive and the fast four lanes thin to two crumbling invitations to a head-on collision, the canyon becomes funky L.A., where forty- year-old Hollywood bungalows sit next to multilevel glass contemporaries that sit next to gingerbread houses. Harry Houdini built a castle in here among the steep hillsides. Jim Morrison lived in a clapboard house near the little market that still serves as the canyon’s only commercial outpost.
The canyon was a place where the new rich-rock stars, writers, film actors and drug dealers- came to live. They braved the mudslides and the monumental traffic tie-ups just to call Laurel Canyon home. Locke lived on Lookout Mountain Drive, a steep upward grade off Laurel Canyon Boulevard that made Bosch’s department-issue Caprice work extra hard. The address he was looking for could not be missed because it blinked in blue neon from the front wall of Locke’s house. Harry pulled to the curb behind a multicolor Volkswagen van that was at least twenty-five years old. Laurel Canyon was like that, a time warp.
Bosch got out, dropped his cigarette in the street and stepped on it. It was very quiet and dark. He heard the Caprice’s engine ticking away its heat, the smell of burning oil wafting from the undercarriage. He reached in through the open window and grabbed the two binders.
It had taken most of an hour to get to Locke’s and during that time Bosch had been able to refine his thoughts on the discovery of the pattern within a pattern. He also realized along the way that there was a key way of attempting to confirm it.
Locke answered with a glass of red wine in his hand. He was barefoot and wearing blue jeans and a surgeon’s green shirt. Hanging from a leather thong around his neck was a large pink crystal.
“Good evening, Detective Bosch. Please come in.”
He led the way through an entry hall to a large living room/dining room area with a wall of French doors that opened onto a brick patio surrounding a lighted blue pool. Bosch noticed the pinkish carpet was dirty and worn but otherwise the place was not bad for a college sex professor and author. He noticed the water of the pool was choppy, as if someone had been swimming recently. He thought he smelled a trace of stale marijuana smoke.
“Beautiful place,” Bosch said. “You know we’re almost neighbors. I live on the other side of the hill. On Woodrow Wilson.”
“Oh, really? How come it took you so long to get here?”
“Well, actually, I didn’t come from home. I was at a friend’s place up in Bouquet Canyon.”
“Ah, a girlfriend, that explains the forty-five-minute wait.”
“Sorry to hold you up, Doctor. Why don’t we get on with this so I don’t keep you any longer than necessary.”
“Yes, please.”
