It was a place where men would go privately, taking care to leave no trail that would reveal them as having dipped in such murky moral waters. Married men. Men of success or religious piety. In a strong way it was much like the red-light district in Amsterdam, a place where the Poet had previously found his victims.

So much of cop work is pursuing gut instinct and hunches. You live and die by the hard facts and evi- dence. There is no denying that. But it is your instinct that often brings those crucial things to you and then holds them together like glue. And I was following instinct now. I had a hunch about Clear. I knew I could sit at the dinette table and plot triangles and map points for hours if I wanted to. But the triangle I had drawn with the town of Clear at the top was the one that held me still at the same time the adrenaline was jangling in my blood. I believed I had drawn McCaleb's triangle. No, more than believed it. I knew it. My silent partner. Using his cryptic notes as direction, I now knew where I was going. Using my license as a straightedge I added two lines to the map, completing the triangle. I tapped each point on the map and stood up.

The clock on the wall in the kitchenette said it was almost five. I decided it was too late to go north tonight. I would arrive in near darkness and I didn't want that-that could be dangerous. I quickly put a plan in motion to leave at dawn and have almost an entire day to do what I needed to do in Clear.

I was thinking about what I would need for the trip when there was a knock on my door that startled me even though I was expecting it. I walked over to let Buddy Lockridge in.

Harry Bosch opened the door and Rachel could tell he was angry. He was about to say something when he saw it was her and checked himself. That told her he was waiting for somebody and that that somebody was late.

"Agent Walling."

"Expecting someone?"

"Uh, no, not really."

She saw his eyes flick past her and check the rear parking lot.

"Can I come in?"

"Sorry, sure, come on in."

He stepped back and held the door. She entered a sad little efficiency apartment that was sparsely furnished in depressing colors. On the left was a dinette table circa 1960s and she saw on it a bottle of beer, a notebook and a road atlas open to a map of Nevada. Bosch moved quickly to the table and closed the atlas and his note- book and stacked them one on top of the other. She then noticed his driver's license was on the table as well.

"So what brings you over here to this swell place?" he asked.

"Just wanted to see what you were up to," she said, leaving suspicion out of her voice. "I hope our little welcome wagon wasn't too difficult for you today."

"Nope. Comes with the territory."

"I'm sure it does."

"How did you find me?"

She stepped further into the room.

"You're paying for this place with a credit card."

Bosch nodded but didn't seem surprised by the speed or questionable legality of her search for him. She moved on, nodding at the map book on the dinette table.

"Planning a little vacation there? I mean, now that you're not working the case anymore."

"A road trip, yeah."

"Where to?"

"Not sure yet."

She smiled and turned toward the open balcony door. She could see an expensive-looking black jet on the tarmac beyond the motel's parking lot.

"According to your credit-card records you've been renting a place here for nearly nine months. On and off but mostly on."

"Yeah, they give me the long-term discount. Comes out to like twenty bucks a day or something."

"That's probably too much."

He turned and surveyed the place, as if for the first time.

"Yeah."

They were both still standing. Rachel knew he didn't want her to sit down or stay because of the visitor he was expecting. So she decided to push things. She sat down without being asked on the threadbare couch.

"Why have you had this place for nine months?" she asked.

He pulled a chair away from the dinette and brought it over and sat down.

"It's got nothing to do with this, if that's what you mean."

"No, I didn't think it did. I'm just curious, that's all. You don't look like a gambler to me-I mean, not with money. And this looks like a place for hard-core types."

He nodded.

"It is. That and people with other addictions. I'm here because my daughter lives out here. With her mother. I've been trying to get to know her. I guess she's my addiction."

"How old is she?"

"She'll be six soon."

"That's nice. Her mother being Eleanor Wish, the former FBI agent?"

"That's her. What can I do for you, Agent Walling?"

She smiled. She liked Bosch. He got to the point. He apparently didn't let anybody or anything intimidate him. She wondered where that came from. Was it from carrying a badge or carrying other baggage?

"You can call me Rachel for starters. But I think it's more like what can I do for you. You wanted me to contact you, didn't you?"

He laughed but not with any humor attached to it.

"What are you talking about?"

"The interview. The looks, the nods and smiles, all that. You chose me as sort of a pen pal in there. Tried to connect. Tried to even it up, turn it from three against one to a game of two on two."

Bosch shrugged and looked out the balcony. "That was just sort of a shot in the dark. I… I don't know, I just sort of thought you weren't getting a fair shake there, that's all. And I guess I know what that's like."

"It's been eight years since I got a fair shake from the bureau."

He looked back at her. "All because of Backus?"

"That and other things. I made some mistakes and the bureau never forgets."

"I know what that is like, too." He stood up.

"I'm having a beer," he said. "Do you want one, or is this a duty visit."

"I could use one, duty or not." He got up and took the open beer off the dinette table and went to the small efficiency kitchen. He put the bottle in the sink and got two more out of the refrigerator. He cranked off the caps and brought them out to the seating arrangement. Rachel knew she had to be careful and alert. There was a thin line between who played whom in these situations.

'This place comes with glasses in the cabinet but I wouldn't trust them," he said, handing her a bottle. "Bottle's fine."

She took hers and made sure she chinked it off his. She then took a short pull on the bottle. Sierra Nevada, it tasted good. She could tell he was watching to see if she was really drinking. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand even though she didn't have to.

"That tastes right."

"Sure does. So what part of this are they giving you? Or do you have to stand around and just keep quiet- like Agent Zigo?"

Rachel gave him a short laugh.

"Yeah, I don't think I've heard him utter a full sentence yet. But then again, I've only been here a couple days. Basically, they brought me in because they didn't have much of a choice. I've got my little back story with Bob Backus and the GPS was sent to me at Quantico, even though I haven't set foot there in eight years. As you picked up on in the RV, this could be about me. Maybe, maybe not, but it cuts me in."

"And where did they bring you in from?"

" Rapid City."

Bosch grimaced.

"No, that's good," she said. "Before that it was Minot, North Dakota. A one-agent office. I think in my second year there they actually had a spring."

"Man, that hurts. In L.A. what they do if they want to get rid of you is give you what they call 'freeway therapy,' transfer you to the division furthest from where you live so you have to fight the traffic every day. Couple years of two-hour commutes and guys turn in their badges."