RIDER WORKED THE FILE and the phone while Bosch drove toward Panorama City, which was just on the east side of the 405 and across the Devonshire Division line.

Panorama City was a district carved off the north side of Van Nuys many years before when residents there decided they needed to distance themselves from negative connotations ascribed to Van Nuys. Nothing about the place was changed but the name and a few street signs. Still, Panorama City sounded clean and beautiful and crime free, and the residents felt better about themselves. But many years had passed and resident groups had petitioned to rename their neighborhoods again and to distance themselves, if not physically then image-wise, from negative connotations associated with Panorama City. Bosch guessed it was one of the ways Los Angeles kept reinventing itself. Like a writer or actor who keeps changing his name to leave past failings behind and start fresh, even with the same pen or face.

As expected, Roland Mackey was no longer at the auto towing company he had worked for while on his most recent stint of probation. But also as expected, the ex-con was not particularly smart when it came to covering his trail. The probation file contained his entire work history through a life that had largely been spent on probation or parole. He drove a tow truck for two other concerns during past periods of state monitoring. Posing as an acquaintance, Rider called each of them and easily located his current employer: Tampa Towing. She then called the tow service and asked if Mackey was working today. After a moment she closed the phone and looked at Bosch.

“ Tampa Towing. He comes on at four.”

Bosch checked his watch. Mackey reported for work in ten minutes.

“Let’s go by and get a look at him. We’ll check his address after. Tampa and what?”

“ Tampa and Roscoe. Must be across from the hospital.”

“The hospital is Roscoe and Reseda. I wonder why they didn’t call it Roscoe Towing.”

“Funny. Then what do we do after we get a look at him?”

“Well, we go up to him and ask him if he killed Becky Verloren seventeen years ago and then he says yes and we take him downtown.”

“Come on, Bosch.”

“I don’t know. What do you want to do next?”

“We check his address like you said, and then I think we’re ready for the parents. I’m thinking that we need to talk to them about this guy before we set up on him and make a play-especially in the newspaper. I say we go by the house and see the mother. We’re already up here. Might as well.”

“You mean if she’s still there,” he said. “Did you run an AutoTrack on her, too?”

“Didn’t have to. She’ll be there. You heard how Garcia was talking. Her baby’s ghost is in that house. I doubt she’ll ever leave it.”

Bosch guessed that she was right about that but didn’t respond. He drove east on Devonshire Boulevard to Tampa Avenue and then dropped down to Roscoe Boulevard. They got to the intersection a few minutes before four. Tampa Towing was actually a Chevron service station with two mechanics’ bays. Bosch parked in the lot of a small strip shopping plaza across the street and killed the engine.

Bosch wasn’t surprised when four o’clock came and went without any sign of Roland Mackey. He didn’t strike Bosch as somebody who would be excited to come to work to tow cars.

At four-fifteen Rider said, “What do you think? You think my call could have -”

“There he is.”

A thirty-year-old Camaro with gray primer on all four fenders pulled into the service station and parked near the air pump. Bosch had caught only a glimpse of the driver but it was enough for him to know. He reached over to the glove compartment and took out a pair of field glasses he had bought through an airline catalog he had read while on a flight to Las Vegas.

He slouched down in his seat and watched through the glasses. Mackey got out of the Camaro and walked toward the service station’s open garage. He was wearing a uniform of dark blue pants and a lighter blue shirt. There was an oval-shaped patch over the left breast pocket that said Ro. He had work gloves sticking out of one of his back pockets.

There was an old Ford Taurus up on a hydraulic lift in the garage and a man working beneath it with an air wrench. When Mackey entered, the man with the wrench nonchalantly reached out and gave him a high five. Mackey stopped while the man told him something.

“I think he’s telling him about the phone call,” Bosch said. “Mackey doesn’t look too concerned about it. He just pulled a cell out of his pocket. He’s calling the person he probably thinks called him.”

Reading Mackey’s lips, Bosch said, “Hey, did you call me?”

Mackey quickly ended the conversation.

“I guess not,” Bosch said.

Mackey put his phone back into his pocket.

“He tried one person,” Rider said. “Must not have much of a social life.”

“The name on the patch on his shirt is Ro,” Bosch said. “If his buddy told him that the caller asked for Roland, then he may have narrowed it down to the one person who calls him that. Maybe it was dear old dad, the welder.”

“So what’s he doing?”

“Can’t see him. He went into the back.”

“Maybe we should get out of here before he starts looking around.”

“Come on. One call and you think he’s going to think somebody’s onto him after seventeen years?”

“No, not for Becky. I’m worried about whatever else he’s into now. We might be stumbling right into the middle of something and not even know it.”

Bosch put down the binoculars. She was right about that. He started the car.

“Okay, we got our look,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go see Muriel Verloren.”

“What about Panorama City?”

“PC can wait. We both know he doesn’t live at that address anymore. Checking it is just a formality.”

He started backing out of the space.

“Do you think we should call Muriel first?” Rider asked.

“No. Let’s just go knock on the door.”

“We’re good at that.”

IN TEN MINUTES they were in front of the Verloren house. The neighborhood where Becky Verloren had lived still seemed pleasant and safe. Red Mesa Way was wide, with sidewalks on both sides and no shortage of shade trees. Most of the homes were ranch houses that sprawled across the extra-large lots. In the sixties, the larger properties were what drew people to settle the northwest corner of the city. Forty years later the trees were mature and the neighborhood had a cohesive feel to it.

The Verlorens’ house was one of the few that had a second floor. It was still the classic ranch-style home but the roof popped up over the double-slot garage. Bosch knew from the murder book that Becky’s bedroom had been upstairs over the garage and in the back.

The garage door was closed. There was no apparent sign that anyone was home. They parked in the driveway and went to the front door. When Bosch pushed a doorbell button he could hear a chime echo inside, a single tone that seemed very distant and lonely to him.

The door was answered by a woman who wore a shapeless blue pullover dress that helped hide her own shapeless body. She wore flat sandals. Her hair was dyed a color red that had too much orange in it. It looked like a home job that didn’t go as planned, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. As soon as she opened the door a gray cat shot out of the opening and into the front yard.

“Smoke, don’t get hit!” she yelled first. Then she said, “Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Verloren?” Rider asked.

“Yes, what is it?”

“We’re with the police. We’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”

As soon as Rider said the word “police” and before she got to “daughter,” Muriel Verloren brought both hands up to her mouth and reacted as though it was the moment she had learned her daughter was dead.