“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 Dollmaker 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
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 amp; 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
