Michael Connelly (122 page)

As far as Bosch knew, neither doctor ever knew he had been watched. In the book Bremmer wrote, they were identified by pseudonyms.

Nearly two-thirds through the background packets, as he read about Nicole Knapp, the seventh victim, Bosch saw the pattern
within the pattern. He had somehow missed it before. All of them had. The task force, Locke, the media. They had put all the
victims into the same classification. A whore is a whore is a whore. But there were differences. Some were streetwalkers,
some were higher up the scale as escorts. Within these two groups, some were also dancers; one was a telegram stripper. And
two made livings in the pornography trade — as had the latest victim, Becky Kaminski — while taking outcall hooking assignments
on the side.

Bosch took the packets and photos of Nicole Knapp, the seventh victim, and Shirleen Kemp, the eleventh victim, off the table.
These were the two porn actresses, known on video as Holly Lere and Heather Cumhither, respectively.

He then paged through one of the binders until he found the package on the lone survivor, the woman who had gotten away. She,
too, was a porn actress who took outcall sex jobs. Her name was Georgia Stern. Her video name was Velvet Box. She had gone
to the Hollywood Star Motel to meet a date arranged through the outcall service she advertised in the local sex tabloids.
After she arrived, her client asked her to undress. She turned her back to do this, offering a show of modesty in case that
was a turn-on for the client. She then saw the leather strap of her purse come over her head and he began choking her from
behind. She fought, as probably all the victims had, but she was able to get free by driving an elbow into her attacker’s
ribs, then turning and delivering a kick to his genitals.

She ran naked from the room, all thought of modesty long gone. By the time police went back in, the attacker was gone. It
was three days before the reports on the incident filtered their way to the task force. By then the hotel room had been used
dozens of times — the Hollywood Star offered hourly rates — and it was useless as far as gathering physical evidence went.

Reading the reports on it now, Bosch realized why the composite drawing that Georgia Stern had helped a police artist sketch
was so different from the appearance of Norman Church.

It had been a different man.

• • •

An hour later, he turned one of the binders to the last page, where he had kept a listing of phone numbers and addresses of
the principals involved in the investigation. He went to the wall phone and dialed the home of Dr. John Locke. He hoped the
psychologist had not changed his number in four years.

Locke picked up after five rings.

“Sorry, Dr. Locke, I know it’s getting late. It’s Harry Bosch.”

“Harry, how are you? I am sorry we didn’t get to talk today. It was not the best circumstance for you, I’m sure, but I —”

“Yes, Doctor, listen, something’s come up. It’s related to the Dollmaker. I have some things I want to show you and talk about.
Would it be possible for me to come there?”

There was a lengthy silence before Locke answered.

“Would that be about this new case I’ve read about in the paper?”

“Yes, that and some other things.”

“Well, let’s see, it’s nearly ten o’clock. Are you sure this can’t wait until tomorrow morning?”

“I am in court tomorrow morning, Doctor. All day. It’s important. I’d really appreciate your time. I’ll be there before eleven
and be out before twelve.”

When Locke didn’t say anything, Harry wondered if the soft-spoken doctor was afraid of him or just didn’t want a killer cop
in his home.

“Besides,” Bosch said into the silence, “I think you’ll find it interesting.”

“Very well,” Locke said.

After getting the address, Harry packed all the paperwork back into the two binders. Sylvia came into the kitchen after hesitating
at the doorway until she was sure the photos were packed away.

“I heard you talking. Are you going to his place tonight?”

“Yeah, right now. In Laurel Canyon.”

“What’s going on?”

He stopped his hurried movement. He had both binders stacked under his right arm.

“I …well, we missed something. The task force. We messed up. I think all along there were two, but I didn’t see it until now.”

“Two killers?”

“I think so. I want to ask Locke about it.”

“Are you coming back tonight?”

“I don’t know. It will be late. I was thinking about just going to my place. Check my messages, get some fresh clothes.”

“This weekend is not looking good, is it?”

“What — oh, yeah, Lone Pine, yeah. Well, uh, I —”

“Don’t worry about it. But I may want to hang out at your place while they have the open house here.”

“Sure.”

She walked him to the door and opened it. She told him to be careful and to call her the next day. He said he would. At the
threshold he hesitated. He said, “You know, you were right.”

“About what?”

“What you said about men.”

Laurel Canyon is a winding cut through the Santa Monica Mountains that connects Studio City with Hollywood and the Sunset
Strip. On the south side, where the road drops below Mulholland Drive and the fast four lanes thin to two crumbling invitations
to a head-on collision, the canyon becomes funky L.A., where forty-year-old Hollywood bungalows sit next to multilevel glass
contemporaries that sit next to gingerbread houses. Harry Houdini built a castle in here among the steep hillsides. Jim Morrison
lived in a clapboard house near the little market that still serves as the canyon’s only commercial outpost.

The canyon was a place where the new rich — rock stars, writers, film actors and drug dealers — came to live. They braved
the mudslides and the monumental traffic tie-ups just to call Laurel Canyon home. Locke lived on Lookout Mountain Drive, a
steep upward grade off Laurel Canyon Boulevard that made Bosch’s department-issue Caprice work extra hard. The address he
was looking for could not be missed because it blinked in blue neon from the front wall of Locke’s house. Harry pulled to
the curb behind a multicolor Volkswagen van that was at least twenty-five years old. Laurel Canyon was like that, a time warp.

Bosch got out, dropped his cigarette in the street and stepped on it. It was very quiet and dark. He heard the Caprice’s engine
ticking away its heat, the smell of burning oil wafting from the undercarriage. He reached in through the open window and
grabbed the two binders.

It had taken most of an hour to get to Locke’s and during that time Bosch had been able to refine his thoughts on the discovery
of the pattern within a pattern. He also realized along the way that there was a key way of attempting to confirm it.

Locke answered with a glass of red wine in his hand. He was barefoot and wearing blue jeans and a surgeon’s green shirt. Hanging
from a leather thong around his neck was a large pink crystal.

“Good evening, Detective Bosch. Please come in.”

He led the way through an entry hall to a large living room/dining room area with a wall of French doors that opened onto
a brick patio surrounding a lighted blue pool. Bosch noticed the pinkish carpet was dirty and worn but otherwise the place
was not bad for a college sex professor and author. He noticed the water of the pool was choppy, as if someone had been swimming
recently. He thought he smelled a trace of stale marijuana smoke.

“Beautiful place,” Bosch said. “You know we’re almost neighbors. I live on the other side of the hill. On Woodrow Wilson.”

“Oh, really? How come it took you so long to get here?”

“Well, actually, I didn’t come from home. I was at a friend’s place up in Bouquet Canyon.”

“Ah, a girlfriend, that explains the forty-five-minute wait.”

“Sorry to hold you up, Doctor. Why don’t we get on with this so I don’t keep you any longer than necessary.”

“Yes, please.”

He signaled Bosch to put the binders down on the dining room table. He didn’t ask if Harry wanted a glass of wine, an ashtray
or even a pair of swimming trunks.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Harry offered. “I’ll be quick.”

“Yes, you said that. I’m sorry this came up now myself. Testifying put me back a day on my research and writing schedule and
I was trying to recoup tonight.”

Bosch noticed his hair wasn’t wet. Maybe he had been working while someone else had been in the pool.

Locke took a seat at the dining room table and Bosch told the story of the concrete blonde investigation in exact chronological
order after starting by showing him the copy of the new note left at the station on Monday.

While telling the details of the latest death, Bosch saw Locke’s eyes brighten with interest. When he was done, the psychologist
folded his arms and closed his eyes and said, “Let me think about this before we go on.”

He sat perfectly still. Bosch wasn’t sure what to make of it. After twenty seconds went by, he finally said, “If you’re going
to think, I’m going to borrow your phone.”

“In the kitchen,” Locke said without opening his eyes.

Bosch got Amado’s phone number from the task force list in the binder and called him. He could tell he had awakened the coroner’s
analyst.

After identifying himself, Bosch said, “Sorry to wake you. But things are happening very quickly on this new Dollmaker case.
Did you read about it in the paper?”

“Yeah. But they said it wasn’t known for sure if it was the Dollmaker.”

“Right. That’s what I’m working on. I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“You testified yesterday about the rape kits taken from each victim. Where are they now? The evidence, I mean.”

There was a long silence before Amado said, “They’re probably still in evidence storage. The coroner’s policy is to keep evidence
seven years after resolution of a case. You know, in case of appeals or something. Now, since your perp is dead, there would
be no reason to keep the stuff even that long. But it takes an order from the medical examiner to clear out an evidence locker.
The chances are the ME at the time would not have thought or remembered to do this after you, uh, killed Church. It’s too
big of a bureaucracy to run that well. My guess is the kits would still be there. The evidence custodian would only request
a disposal order after seven years.”

“Okay,” Bosch said, excitement evident in his voice. “What about the condition? Would it still be usable as evidence? And
for analysis?”

“Should be no deterioration, I would think.”

“How full’s your plate?”

“It’s always full. But you’ve got me hooked here. What’s up?”

“I need someone to pull the kits from victims seven and eleven. That’s Nicole Knapp and Shirleen Kemp. Got it? Seven and eleven,
like the store.”

“I got it. Seven eleven. Then what?”

“Cross-reference the pubic combs. Look for the same foreign hair in both places, on both women. How long will it take?”

“Three, four days. We have to send that to the DOJ lab. I can put a rush on it, maybe get it sooner. Can I ask you something?
Why are we doing this?”

“I think there was someone else besides Church. A copycat. He did seven, eleven and the one this week. And I’m thinking he
might not have been smart enough to shave himself like Church. If you find similar hair in the combs, I think that will clinch
it.”

“Well, I can tell you something right off that is interesting about those two. Seven and eleven.”

Bosch waited.

“I reviewed everything before I testified, so it’s still fresh, you know? Remember I testified that two of the victims had
extreme damage, vaginal tears? Well, it was those two, seven and eleven.”

Bosch thought about this for a few moments. From out in the dining room he heard Locke say, “Harry?”

“Be right there,” he called out. To Amado, he said, “That’s interesting.”

“It means this second guy, whoever he is, he’s rougher trade than Church. Those two women were hurt the most.”

Something came together in Bosch’s mind then. Something that had not seemed right about Amado’s testimony the day before.
Now it was clear.

“The condoms,” he said.

“What about them?”

“You testified that it was a box of twelve, only three left.”

“That’s right! Nine used. You subtract victims seven and eleven from the list and you have nine victims. It fits, Harry. Okay,
first thing tomorrow, I’m on this. Give me three days, max.”

They hung up and Bosch wondered if Amado would get any sleep tonight.

Locke had replenished his wineglass but still did not ask Bosch if he wanted a glass when he returned to the dining room.
Bosch sat down across the table from him.

“I’m ready to go on,” Locke said.

“Let’s do it.”

“You’re saying that the body found this week exhibited every known detail ascribed to the Dollmaker?”

“Right.”

“Except now we have a new method of disposal. A private disposal as opposed to the public challenge of the others. It’s all
very interesting. What else?”