Bosch nodded. He wasn’t concerned yet. Sometimes things needed a little push and that was what he was ready to do.

“I hope you’ve got a good plan, Harry,” Marcia called over. He was in the driver’s side of their car and Bosch was furthest away on the passenger side of Rider’s car.

“You want to stick around?” Bosch replied. “No use waiting on it if there hasn’t been any action. I’m ready to go.”

Jackson nodded.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “You going to need backup?”

“I doubt it. I’m just going to plant a seed. But you never know. It couldn’t hurt.”

“All right. We’ll watch anyway. Just in case, what’s your flare going to be?”

Bosch hadn’t thought about how he would send up a flare if things went wrong and he had to call in backup.

“I guess I’ll hit the horn,” he said. “Or you’ll hear the shots.”

He smiled and everybody nodded and then Rider backed out of the space and they headed back down Tampa to his car.

“You sure about this?” Rider asked as she pulled in next to the Mercedes.

“I’m sure.”

He had noticed on the way over that she had brought an accordion file with her. It was on the armrest between the seats.

“What’s this?”

“Since you woke me up early I decided to go to work. I traced down the other five members of the Chatsworth Eights.”

“Great work. Any of them still local?”

“Two of them are still around. But it looks like they have grown out of their so-called youthful indiscretions. No records. They’ve got pretty decent jobs.”

“What about the others?”

“The only one that still seems like he’s a believer in the cause is a guy named Frank Simmons. Moved down here from Oregon when he was in high school. A couple years later he joins the Eights. He now lives in Fresno. But he did a two-year bit in Obispo for selling machine guns.”

“I might be able to use that. When was he there?”

“Hold on a second.”

She opened her file and dug through it until she came up with a slim manila folder with the name Frank Simmons on it. She opened it and showed Bosch a prison mug shot of Simmons.

“Six years ago,” she said. “He got out six years ago.”

Bosch studied the photo, committing the details of Simmons’s look to memory. He had dark short hair and dark eyes. His skin was very pale and his face was tracked with acne scars. He tried to cover these with a goatee that would also make him look tougher.

“Where was the case, here?” he asked.

“No, actually, it was from Fresno. He apparently moved up there after the troubles down here.”

“Who was he selling the machine guns to?”

“I called the FBI office up there, talked to the agent. He didn’t want to cooperate with me until he checked me out. I’m still waiting for the callback.”

“Great.”

“I got the feeling that Mr. Simmons is still of active interest to the bureau up there and the agent wasn’t into sharing.”

Bosch nodded.

“Where was Simmons living at the time of the Verloren thing?”

“Can’t tell. He was one of the younger ones, so he was probably living with his parents. AutoTrack doesn’t trace him back further than ’ninety. By then he was in Fresno.”

“So unless his parents moved out after this thing, he was probably right there in the Valley.”

“It’s possible.”

“Okay, this is good, Kiz. I might be able to use some of this. Follow me over to the top of Balboa Park by Woodley. I think that’s a good spot. There’s a golf course there with a parking lot. There will be a lot of cars. You guys will be able to park there and it will be good cover. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell the other guys.”

He took out his badge wallet, his cuffs and his service pistol and put them all down on the floor of the car.

“Harry, you got a backup?”

“I’ve got you, right?”

“I mean it.”

“Yes, Kiz, I’ve got a little popper on my ankle. I’ll be all right.”

He got out and got into his own car. On the drive over to the park he rehearsed the play in his mind. He got ready and got excited.

Ten minutes later he pulled over onto the shoulder of the park road, killed the engine and got out. He went to the right front side of the car and let the air out of the tire through the valve. Because he knew some tow trucks come equipped with compressed air, he opened his pocket knife and slashed open the stem of the tire’s valve. The tire would have to be repaired, not refilled.

Ready to go, he opened his cell phone and called the service station where Mackey worked. He said he needed a tow and was put on hold. A whole minute went by before another voice came on the line. Roland Mackey.

“What do you need?”

“I need a tow. I got a flat and the valve looks like it’s fucked up.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“Black Mercedes SUV.”

“What about the spare?”

“It got stolen by some ni-it was stolen when I was in South-Central last week.”

“That’s too bad. Shouldn’t go down there.”

“I had no choice. Can you tow me or not?”

“Okay, okay. Where are you?”

Bosch told him. It was close enough that this time Mackey didn’t try to talk him into calling someone else.

“All right, ten minutes,” Mackey said. “Be there with your car when I get there.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Bosch closed the phone and opened the back of the SUV. He pulled his outer shirt out of his pants and then took it off. He put it in the back. His new tattoos were now partially displayed. He sat down on the tailgate and waited. Two minutes later his cell phone chirped. It was Rider.

“Harry, they were able to pipe the call over to me from ListenTech. You sounded legit.”

“Good.”

“I just talked to the guys. Mackey’s moving. They’re with him.”

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“I kind of wish now we had gotten you a body wire. You never know what this guy is going to say to you.”

“Too risky in just a T-shirt. Besides, the chances of the guy telling a stranger he was the one who killed the girl in the newspaper story are probably longer than me winning the lotto without buying a ticket.”

“I guess.”

“I gotta go, Kiz.”

“Good luck, Harry. Be careful.”

“All the time.”

He closed the phone.

29

THE TOW TRUCK SLOWED as it approached the Mercedes. Bosch looked up from the rear hatch, where he was sitting below the shade of the overhead door and reading the Daily News. He waved the paper at the tow truck driver and stood up. The truck drove by and then onto the shoulder in front of the Mercedes. It then backed up to within five feet of it. Its driver got out. It was Roland Mackey.

Mackey was wearing leather gloves that were grease-stained dark in the palms. Rather than acknowledge Bosch, he walked around the front of the Mercedes and looked down at the flattened tire. As Bosch came around, still holding the paper, Mackey squatted down and looked at the tire’s valve. He reached out and bent it back and forth, exposing the slice that had been cut into it.

“Almost looks like it was cut,” Mackey said.

“Maybe glass in the road or something,” Bosch offered.

“And no spare. Ain’t that a bitch?”

He looked up at Bosch, squinting in the light from the sun that was beginning to go down behind Bosch.

“You’re telling me,” Bosch replied.

“Well, I can tow it in and then have my guy put a new valve on the tire. Take about fifteen minutes once we get it into the garage.”

“Fine. Do it.”

“This going to be on Triple A or insurance?”

“No, cash.”

Mackey told him it would be eighty-five dollars for the tow plus three dollars for every mile his car was towed. The charge for the valve replacement would be another twenty-five plus the cost of the valve.

“Fine, do it,” Bosch said again.

Mackey stood up and looked at Bosch. He appeared to glance directly at Bosch’s neck and then away. He said nothing about the tattoos.