Mackey took his right hand off the wheel and pulled off his glove by biting one of the fingers. It reminded Bosch of the way a child would do it. Mackey then extended his hand to Bosch.

“I’m Ro, by the way.”

Bosch shook his hand.

“Ro?”

“Short for Roland. Roland Mackey. Pleased to meet you.”

“George Reichert,” Bosch said, giving the name he had made up after careful thought earlier in the day.

“Reichert?” Mackey said. “German, right?”

“Means ‘heart of the Reich.’”

“That’s cool. And I guess that explains the Mercedes. You know, I deal with cars all fucking day. You can tell a lot about people by the cars they drive and how they take care of them.”

“I suppose.”

Bosch nodded. He now saw the direct way to his goal. Once again Mackey had unwittingly helped.

“German engineering,” Bosch said. “The best fucking carmakers in the world. What do you drive when you’re not in this rig?”

“I’m restoring a ’seventy-two Camaro. It’s going to be a sweet ride when I’m finished.”

“Good year,” Bosch offered.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t buy anything out of Detroit nowadays. You know who’s making our cars now, don’t you? All the fucking mud people. I wouldn’t drive one, let alone put my family in one.”

“In Germany,” Bosch responded, “you go into a factory and everybody’s got blue eyes, you know what I mean? I’ve seen pictures.”

Mackey nodded thoughtfully. Bosch thought it was time to make the direct move. He unfolded the newspaper on his lap. He held it up so that the full front page, and the full Verloren story, could be seen.

“Talk about mud people,” he said. “Did you read this story?”

“No, what’s it say?”

“It’s about this mother sittin’ on a bed boohooing about her mud child who got killed seventeen years ago. And the police are still on the case. But I mean, who cares, man?”

Mackey glanced over at the paper and saw the photo with the inset shot of Rebecca Verloren’s face. But he didn’t say anything and his own face did not betray any recognition. Bosch lowered the paper so as not to be too obvious about it. He refolded it and discarded it on the seat between them. He pushed things one more time.

“I mean, you mix the races like that and what are you going to get?” he asked.

“Exactly,” Mackey said.

It wasn’t a strong reply. It was almost hesitant, as if Mackey was thinking about something else. Bosch took this as a good sign. Maybe Mackey had just felt that cold finger go down his spine. Maybe it was the first time in seventeen years.

Bosch decided he had given it his best shot. If he tried to do anything more he might cross the line into obviousness and give himself away. He decided to ride the rest of the way silently, and Mackey seemed to make the same choice.

But a few blocks later Mackey swerved the truck into the second lane to get around a slow-moving Pinto.

“You believe there is still one of those on the street?” he said.

As they passed the little car Bosch saw a man of Asian descent huddled behind the wheel. Bosch thought he might be Cambodian.

“Figures,” Mackey said, as he saw the driver. “Watch this.”

Mackey then steered back into the original lane, squeezing the Pinto between the towed Mercedes and a row of cars parked against the curb. The Pinto driver had no choice but to pull to a screeching stop. Mackey’s laughter drowned out the weak horn blast from the Pinto.

“Fuck you!” Mackey yelled. “Get back on your fucking boat!”

He looked to Bosch for affirmation and Bosch smiled, the hardest thing he’d had to do in a long while.

“Hey, man, that was my car you almost hit that guy with,” he said in mock protest.

“Hey, were you in Vietnam?” Mackey asked.

“Why?”

“Because, man. You were there, weren’t you?”

“So?”

“So, man, I had a friend who was there. He said they dusted mooks like that guy back there like it was nothing. A dozen for breakfast and another dozen for lunch. I wish I’d been there, is all I’m saying.”

Bosch looked away from him and out the side window. Mackey’s statement had left an opening for him to ask about guns and killing people. But Bosch couldn’t bring himself to go there. All at once he just wanted to get away from Mackey.

But Mackey kept talking.

“I tried to sign up for the Gulf-the first one-but they wouldn’t take me.”

Bosch recovered some and got back into it.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I don’t know. They needed the slot for a nigger, I guess.”

“Or maybe you had a criminal record.”

Bosch had turned to look at him as he said this. He immediately thought he had sounded too accusatory about it. Mackey turned and held his stare for as long as he could before having to return his eyes to the road.

“I’ve got a record, man, big fucking deal. They still could’ve used me over there.”

The conversation died there, and in a few blocks they were pulling into the service station.

“I don’t think we’ll need to put it in the garage,” Mackey said. “Spider can just take the wheel off while I have it on the hook. We’ll do it quick.”

“Whatever you want to do,” Bosch said. “You’re sure he didn’t leave yet?”

“No, that’s him right there.”

As the tow truck went by the double bays of the garage a man emerged from the shadows and headed toward the back of the truck. He was holding a pneumatic drill with one hand and pulling the air line with the other. Bosch saw the webwork tattooed on his neck. Prison blue. Something about the man’s face immediately struck Bosch as familiar. In a rushed moment of dread he thought he knew the man because he’d had dealings with him as a cop. He had arrested him or questioned him before, maybe even sent him to the prison where he had gotten the webwork done.

Bosch suddenly knew he had to stay clear of the man called Spider. He pulled his phone off his belt.

“All right if I sit here and make a call?” he asked Mackey, who was getting out of the truck.

“Yeah, go ahead. This won’t take long.”

Mackey closed the door, leaving Bosch alone. As he heard the drill start taking the lugs off the wheel of his SUV, Bosch rolled the window up and called Rider’s cell phone.

“How’s it going?” she said by way of a greeting.

“It was going good till we got back to the station,” Bosch said in a low voice. “I think I know the mechanic. If he knows me, this could be a problem.”

“You mean he might know you’re a cop?”

“Exactly.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you want us to do? Tim and Rick are still floating around.”

“Call them and tell them what’s happening. Tell them to stay loose until I get clear. I’m going to stay in the truck as long as I can. If I hold the phone up like I am talking I can keep him from seeing my face.”

“Okay.”

“I just hope Mackey doesn’t want to introduce me. I think I made an impression on him. He might want to show me off.”

“Okay, Harry, just stay cool and we’ll move in if we have -”

“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about the play with -”

“Hey, he’s coming over.”

Just as she said the warning there was a sharp rap on the window. Bosch lowered the phone and turned to see Mackey staring at him. He rolled the window down.

“It’s done,” he said.

“Already?”

“Yup. You can come into the office and pay while he puts the wheel back on. You’ll make it home in a couple hours.”

“Great.”

Holding the phone up to his right ear, Bosch got out of the truck and walked to the office, never allowing Spider a decent look at his face. He spoke to Rider while he walked.

“It looks like I’m getting out of here,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “The man in question is putting on your wheel. Watch yourself when you leave.”

“Will do.”

Once he was in the little office Bosch closed the phone. Mackey had gone behind a greasy, cluttered desk. He took several seconds to use a calculator to do the simple arithmetic of the tow and repair charges.