“Well?”

“What? I seen him. He talked to me once.”

“About what?”

“Making movies. He was-I think he’s an interviewer.”

“Interviewer?”

“I mean like a writer. He said it was for a book. I told him don’t use any of my names but I never checked.”

“Georgia, think back. Hard. This is very important. Could he also be the one who attacked you?”

“You mean the Dollmaker? The Dollmaker’s dead.”

“I know that. I think it was someone else who attacked you. Look at the photo. Was it him?”

She looked at the photo and shook her head.

“I don’t know. They told me it was the Dollmaker, so I forgot what he looked like after he was killed.”

Bosch leaned back in his chair. It was useless.

“You still going to get me in the clinic?” she asked timidly after seeing his change in mood.

“Yeah. You want for me to tell them you’ve got the virus?”

“What virus?”

“AIDS.”

“What for?”

“To get you whatever medicine you need.”

“I don’t have AIDS.”

“Look, I know the last time Van Nuys Vice put the bust on you you had AZT in your purse.”

“That’s for protection. I got that from a friend-a-mine who’s sick. He gave me the bottle and I put cornstarch in it.”

“Protection?”

“I don’t want to work for no pimp. Some asshole comes up and says he’s now your man, I show ’em the shit and say I got the virus, you know, and he splits. They don’t want girls with AIDS. Bad for their business.”

She smiled slyly and Bosch changed his mind about her. She might be saved after all. She had the instincts of a survivor.

The Hollywood Station detective bureau was completely deserted, which was not unusual for nine on a Sunday morning. After stealing a cup of coffee from the watch office while the sergeant was busy at the wall map, Bosch went to the homicide table and called Sylvia but got no answer. He wondered if she was gardening out back and hadn’t heard the phone or had gone out, maybe to get the Sunday paper to read the story about Beatrice Fontenot.

Bosch leaned back in his chair. He didn’t know what his next move was. He used the rover to check with Sheehan and once again was told that there had been no movement at Locke’s house.

“Think we should go up and knock?” Sheehan asked.

He wasn’t expecting an answer and Bosch didn’t give one. But he started thinking about it. It gave him another idea. He decided he would go to Locke’s house to finesse him. To run the story about Mora by him and see how Locke reacted and if he would say the vice cop was probably the Follower.

He threw the empty coffee cup in the trash can and looked over at his slot in the memo and mail box on the wall. He saw he had something in there. He got up and took three pink phone message forms and a white envelope back to his desk. He looked at the messages and one by one dismissed them as unimportant and put them on his message spike to be considered later. Two were from TV reporters and one was from a prosecutor asking about evidence in one of his other cases. All the calls had come in Friday.

Then he looked at the envelope and felt a chill, like a cold steel ball rolling down the back of his neck. It had only his name on the outside but the distinctive printing style could mean it was from nobody else. He dropped the envelope on the table, opened his drawer and dug around in the notebooks, pens and paper clips until he found a pair of rubber gloves. Then he carefully opened the Follower’s message.

As he left the station, he ran through the watch commander’s office, almost knocked down the startled duty sergeant and yelled: “Get hold of Detective Jerry Edgar! Tell’m to come up on the rover. He’ll know what I mean.”

Getting to the freeway was so frustrating that Bosch believed he could actually feel his blood pressure rising. His skin began to feel tight around his eyes, his face grew warm. There was some kind of Sunday morning performance at the Hollywood Bowl and traffic on Highland was backed up to Fountain. Bosch tried taking some side streets but so were many of the people going to the Bowl. He was deep into this quagmire before he cursed himself for not remembering that he had the bubble and siren. Working homicide, it had been so long since he had to race to get anywhere that he had forgotten.

After he slid the bubble onto the roof and hit the siren, the cars began to part in front of him and he remembered how easy it could be. He had just gotten onto the Hollywood Freeway and was speeding north through the Cahuenga Pass when Jerry Edgar’s voice came up on the rover on the seat next to him.

“Harry Bosch?”

“Yeah, Edgar, listen. I want you to call the sheriff’s department, Valencia station, and tell them to get a car to Sylvia’s house code three. Tell them to make sure she’s okay.”

Code three meant lights and siren, an emergency. He gave Edgar her address.

“Make the call now and then come back up.”

“Okay, Harry. What’s going on?”

“Make the call now!”

Three minutes later Edgar was back on the radio.

“They’re on the way. What’ve you got?”

“I’m on my way, too. What I want you to do is go in to the division. I left a note on my desk. It’s from the Follower. Secure it and then call Rollenberger and Irving and tell ’em what’s happening.”

“What is happening?”

Bosch had to swerve into the median to avoid hitting a car that pulled into the lane in front of him. The driver hadn’t seen Bosch coming and Bosch knew he was going too fast-a steady ninety-three-for the siren to give much of a warning to the cars ahead of him.

“The note’s another poem. He says he is going to take the blonde off my hands. Sylvia. There’s no answer at her house but there still may be time. I don’t think I was supposed to find the note until Monday, when I came in for work.”

“On my way. Be careful, buddy. Stay cool.”

Stay cool, Bosch thought. Right. He thought of what Locke had told him about the Follower being angry, wanting to get back at him for putting down the Dollmaker. Not Sylvia, he hoped. He wouldn’t be able to live with it.

He picked the radio back up.

“Team One?”

“Yo,” Sheehan replied.

“Go get him. If he’s there, bring him in.”

“You sure?”

“Bring him in.”

There was a lone sheriff’s car in front of Sylvia’s house. When Bosch pulled to a stop, he saw a uniform deputy standing on the front step, back to the door. It looked as if he was guarding the place. As if he was protecting a crime scene.

As he started to get out, Bosch felt a sharp stabbing pain on the left side of his chest. He held still for a moment and it eased. He ran around the car and across the lawn, working his badge out of his pocket as he went.

“LAPD, what’ve you got?”

“It’s locked. I walked around, all windows and doors secured. No answer. Looks like nobody’s-”