surveillance. “This time don’t fuck it up,” he said as he recovered some of his command presence.
Next he announced there would be a meeting of the task force at noon Sunday, little more than six hours away. He said they would then discuss seeking a search warrant for Locke’s home and office and decide what moves to make. As he headed to the door, Rollenberger looked at Bosch and said, “Go cut him loose. Then, Bosch, you better go get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”
“What about you? How’re you going to handle Irving on this?”
Rollenberger was looking down at the gold detective’s shield he held in his hand. It was Mora’s. He closed his hand over it and put it in his sport coat pocket. Then he looked at Bosch.
“That’s my business, isn’t it, Bosch? Don’t worry about it.”
After the others had left, Bosch and Edgar went up the stairs to the gym room. Mora was silent and refused to look at them as they removed the handcuffs. They said nothing and left him there, the towel still around his neck like a noose, staring at his fractured image in the wall mirror.
Bosch lit a cigarette and looked at his watch when he got to his car. It was 6:20 and he was too wired to go home to sleep. He got in the car and pulled the rover from his pocket.
“Frankie, you up?”
“Yo,” Sheehan responded.
“Anything?”
“Just got here. No life showing. Don’t know whether he’s here or not. Garage door is down.”
“Okay, then.”
Bosch thought of an idea. He picked up Locke’s book and took the cover off it. He folded it and put it in his pocket, then he started the car.
After stopping for coffee at a Winchell’s, Bosch got to the Sybil Brand Institute by seven. Because of the early hour, he had to get the watch commander’s approval to interview Georgia Stern.
He could see she was sick as soon as she was brought into the interview room. She sat hunched over with her arms folded in front of her, as if she were carrying a bag of groceries that had broken and was guarding against losing anything.
“Remember me?” he asked.
“Man, you gotta get me out.”
“Can’t do that. But I can get them to take you into the clinic. You can get methadone in your orange juice.”
“I wanna get out.”
“I’ll get you in the clinic.”
She dropped her head in defeat. She started a slight rocking motion, back and forth. She seemed pitiful to Bosch. But he knew he had to let it go. There were more important things, and she couldn’t be saved.
“You remember me?” he asked again. “From the other night?”
She nodded.
“We showed you pictures? I’ve got another.”
He put the dust jacket from the book on the table. She looked at Locke’s photo for a long while.
“Well?”
“What? I seen him. He talked to me once.”
“About what?”
“Making movies. He was-I think he’s an interviewer.”
“Interviewer?”
“I mean like a writer. He said it was for a book. I told him don’t use any of my names but I never checked.”
“Georgia, think back. Hard. This is very important. Could he also be the one who attacked you?”
“You mean the Dollmaker? The Dollmaker’s dead.”
“I know that. I think it was someone else who attacked you. Look at the photo. Was it him?”
She looked at the photo and shook her head.
“I don’t know. They told me it was the Dollmaker, so I forgot what he looked like after he was killed.”
Bosch leaned back in his chair. It was useless.
“You still going to get me in the clinic?” she asked timidly after seeing his change in mood.
“Yeah. You want for me to tell them you’ve got the virus?”
“What virus?”
“AIDS.”
“What for?”
“To get you whatever medicine you need.”
“I don’t have AIDS.”
“Look, I know the last time Van Nuys Vice put the bust on you you had AZT in your purse.”
“That’s for protection. I got that from a friend-a-mine who’s sick. He gave me the bottle and I put cornstarch in it.”
“Protection?”
“I don’t want to work for no pimp. Some asshole comes up and says he’s now your man, I show ’em the shit and say I got the virus, you know, and he splits. They don’t want girls with AIDS. Bad for their business.”
She smiled slyly and Bosch changed his mind about her. She might be saved after all. She had the instincts of a survivor.
The Hollywood Station detective bureau was completely deserted, which was not unusual for nine on a Sunday morning. After stealing a cup of coffee from the watch office while the sergeant was busy at the wall map, Bosch went to the homicide table and called Sylvia but got no answer. He wondered if she was gardening out back and hadn’t heard the phone or had gone out, maybe to get the Sunday paper to read the story about Beatrice Fontenot.
Bosch leaned back in his chair. He didn’t know what his next move was. He used the rover to check with Sheehan and once again was told that there had been no movement at Locke’s house.
“Think we should go up and knock?” Sheehan asked.
He wasn’t expecting an answer and Bosch didn’t give one. But he started thinking about it. It gave him another idea. He decided he would go to Locke’s house to finesse him. To run the story about Mora by him and see how Locke reacted and if he would say the vice cop was probably the Follower.
He threw the empty coffee cup in the trash can and looked over at his slot in the memo and mail box on the wall. He saw he had something in there. He got up and took three pink phone message forms and a white envelope back to his desk. He looked at the messages and one by one dismissed them as unimportant and put them on his message spike to be considered later. Two were from TV reporters and one was from a prosecutor asking about evidence in one of his other cases. All the calls had come in Friday.
Then he looked at the envelope and felt a chill, like a cold steel ball rolling down the back of his neck. It had only his name on the outside but the distinctive printing style could mean it was from nobody else. He
