Rebecca Verloren’s other friends, Tara Wood didn’t recognize the tow truck driver’s name. Bosch added a new question, asking if she remembered the Chatsworth Eights, and her memory was vague about that as well. Lastly he asked if the next day he could continue the interview and show her a photograph of Mackey. She agreed but told him he would have to come to the CBS television studios, where she worked as a publicist. Bosch knew that CBS was next to the Farmers Market, one of his favorite places in the city. He decided he could go to the market, maybe eat a bowl of gumbo for lunch, and then go see Tara Wood to show the photo of Mackey and ask about Rebecca Verloren’s pregnancy. He made the appointment for 1 p.m. and she agreed to be in her office.
“This is such an old case,” Wood said. “Are you like on a cold case squad?”
“We actually call it the Open-Unsolved Unit.”
“You know, we have a show called
Bosch realized she might be working up some sort of publicity angle. He looked through the glasses at Mackey staring up at the television and thought for a moment of trying to use her interest in the wiretap play they were going to put into motion. He then quickly shelved it, concluding that it would be easier to start the play with a newspaper plant.
“Yeah, maybe, but I think that would have to wait awhile. We’re working this case pretty hard right now and I just need to talk to you tomorrow.”
“No problem. I really hope you find who you are looking for. Ever since I was assigned to this show I’ve been thinking about Rebecca. You know, wondering if there was anything happening. Then out of the blue you called. It’s weird, but in a good way. I’ll see you tomorrow, Detective.”
Bosch said good night and hung up.
A few minutes later, at midnight, the lights at the service station went out. Bosch knew that offering twenty- four-hour tow service didn’t necessarily translate into being open twenty-four hours a day. Mackey or another driver was probably on call through the night.
Bosch slipped from his hiding spot and hustled down Roscoe to the SUV. Just as he got to it he heard the deep thrumming sound of Mackey’s Camaro coming to life. He started his engine, pulled away from the curb, and headed back toward the intersection. As he got there and was stopping for the red light he saw the Camaro with the gray- painted fenders cross the intersection, heading south on Tampa. Bosch waited a few moments, checked all lanes of the intersection for other cars, and blew through the red light to follow.
Mackey’s first stop was a bar called the Side Pocket. It was on Sepulveda Boulevard in Van Nuys near the railroad tracks. It was a small place with a blue neon sign and the barred windows painted black. Bosch had an idea what it would be like inside and what kind of men would be in there. Before leaving his car he took off his sport coat, wrapped his gun, handcuffs and extra clip in it and put it on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He got out and locked the door and headed toward the bar, pulling his shirt out of his jeans as he went.
The inside of the bar was as he expected. A couple of pool tables, a stand-up bar and a row of scarred wood booths. Even though smoking inside the place was illegal, blue smoke was heavy in the air and hanging like a ghost beneath each table light. Nobody was complaining.
Most of the men took their medicine straight up, meaning they were standing. Most had chains on their wallets and tattoos ringing their lower arms. Even with the changes to his appearance Bosch knew he would stand out, possibly even be advertising that he didn’t belong. He saw an opening in the shadows where the bar curved under the television mounted in the corner. He slipped into the spot and leaned over the bar, hoping it helped hide his appearance.
The bartender, a worn woman wearing a black leather vest over a T-shirt, ignored Bosch for a while but that was all right. He wasn’t there to drink. He watched Mackey put quarters on one of the tables and wait for his turn to play. He hadn’t ordered a drink either.
Mackey spent ten minutes going through the assortment of pool cues on the wall racks until he found one he liked the feel of. He then stood by waiting and talking to some of the men standing around the pool table. It didn’t appear to be anything more than casual conversation, as though he knew them but only from playing pool on previous nights.
While he waited and watched, nursing the beer and whisky shot the bartender had finally delivered to him, Bosch at first thought people were watching him as well, but then realized they were only staring at the television screen less than a foot above his head.
Finally Mackey got his game and he turned out to be good at it. He quickly won control of the table and defeated seven challengers, collecting money or beers from all of them. After a half hour he seemed to tire from the lack of competition and got sloppy. The eighth challenger beat him after Mackey missed a clean shot at the eight ball. Mackey took the loss well and slapped a five-dollar bill down on the green felt before stepping away. By Bosch’s count he was at least twenty-five dollars and three beers ahead for the night.
Mackey took his Rolling Rock to a space at the bar and that was Bosch’s cue to withdraw. He put a ten under his empty shot glass and turned away, never giving Mackey his face. He left the bar and went back to his car. The first thing he did was put the gun back on his right hip, grip forward. He started the engine and drove out onto Sepulveda and then a block south. He turned around and pulled to the curb in front of a hydrant. He had a good angle on the front door of the Side Pocket and was in position to follow Mackey’s car north on Sepulveda toward Panorama City. Mackey may have changed apartments after completing probation but Bosch expected that he had not moved far.
The wait this time was not long. Mackey apparently only drank free beer. He left the bar ten minutes after Bosch had, got in the Camaro and headed south on Sepulveda.
Bosch had guessed wrong. Mackey was driving away from Panorama City and the north Valley. This meant Bosch had to pull a U-turn on a largely deserted Sepulveda Boulevard in order to follow him. The move would be highly noticeable in Mackey’s rearview mirror. So he waited, watching the Camaro get smaller in his side-view mirror.
When he saw the turn signal on the Camaro start to blink he pinned the accelerator and took the SUV into a hard one-eighty. He almost lost it by overcompensating on the wheel but then righted the car and took off down Sepulveda. He turned right on Victory and caught up with the Camaro at the traffic signal at the 405 overpass. Mackey stayed off the freeway, however, and continued west on Victory.
With Bosch employing a variety of driving maneuvers to avoid detection, Mackey drove all the way into Woodland Hills. On Mariano Street, a wide street near the 101 Freeway, he finally pulled down a long driveway and parked beside a small house. Bosch drove by and parked further down, then got out and doubled back on foot. He heard the front door of the house closing and then saw the light over the porch go out.
Bosch looked around and realized it was a neighborhood of flag lots. When the neighborhood was first gridded decades before, the properties were cut into large pieces because they were meant to be horse ranches and small vegetable farms. Then the city grew out to the neighborhood and the horses and vegetables were crowded out. The lots were cut up, one property up front on the street and a narrow driveway running down the side of it to the property in the back-the flag-shaped lot.
It made observation difficult. Bosch crept down the long driveway, watching both the house on the front property and Mackey’s house on the back piece. Mackey had parked his Camaro next to a beat-up Ford 150 pickup. It meant Mackey might have a roommate.
When he got closer Bosch stopped to write down the tag number on the F150. He noticed an old bumper sticker on the pickup that said WOULD THE LAST AMERICAN TO LEAVE L.A. PLEASE BRING THE FLAG. It was just one more small brushstroke on what Bosch felt was an emerging picture.
As quietly as he could, Bosch walked down a stone pathway that ran alongside the house. The house was built on knee-high footings which put the windows too far up for him to see in. When he got to the back of the house he heard voices and then realized it was television when he saw the undulating blue glow on the shades of the back room. He started to cross the backyard when suddenly his phone started to chirp. He quickly reached for it and cut off the sound. At the same time he moved quickly back down the pathway and to the driveway. He then ran up the driveway toward the street. He listened for any sound behind him but heard none. When he made it to the street he looked back at the house but saw nothing that gave him reason to believe the chirping from his phone had been heard inside the house above the sounds of the television.
Bosch knew it had been a close call. He was out of breath. He walked back to his car, trying to gather himself
