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 Dollmaker 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.”
“Yeah, I knew. It means nothing, Bosch. A lot of people knew.”
“Oh, it’s Bosch now. No more Harry? Have I suddenly become contemptible in your eyes? Or does the gun give you that sense that we are no longer equals?”
“Fuck you, Bosch. You’re stupid. You’ve got nothing. What else you got? You know, this is great. It will definitely be worth a chapter in the book I do on the Follower.”
“What else’ve I got? I’ve got the concrete blonde. And I’ve got the concrete. Did you know you dropped your cigarettes when you were pouring the concrete? Remember that? You were driving home, wanted a
