“The kitchens are all closed up and we’re still hungry,” said the one with the knife. “You got a few bucks for us? You know, like we could borrow.”

Bosch shook his head.

“No, not really.”

“Not really? You sure ’bout that, boy? You look like you got a nice fat wallet on you now. Don’t be holding back on us.”

A black rage grew in Bosch. In a moment of sharp focus he knew what he could and would do. He would draw his weapon and put bullets into both of these men. In that same instant he knew he would walk away from it after a cursory departmental investigation. The glint of the blade was Bosch’s ticket and he knew it. The men on either side of him didn’t know what they had just walked into. It was like being in the tunnels so many years before. Everything closed down to a tight space. Nothing but kill or be killed. There was something absolutely pure about it, no gray areas and no room for anything else.

Then suddenly the moment changed. Bosch saw the one with the knife staring intently at him, reading something in his eyes, one predator taking the measure of another. The knife man seemed to grow smaller by an almost imperceptible measure. He backed off without physically backing off.

Bosch knew there were people considered to be mind readers. The truth was they were face readers. Their skill was interpreting the myriad muscle constructions of the eyes, the mouth, the eyebrows. From this they decoded intent. Bosch had a level of skill in this. His ex-wife made a living playing poker because she had an even higher skill. The man with the knife had a measure of this skill as well. It had surely saved his life this time.

“Nah, never mind,” said the man.

He took a step back toward the store’s alcove.

“Have a good night, missionary man,” he said as he retreated into the darkness.

Bosch fully turned and looked at the other man. Without a word, he too stepped back into his crack to hide and wait for the next victim.

Bosch looked up and down the street. It seemed deserted now. He turned and headed on toward his ride. As he walked he took out his cell phone and called the Central Division patrol office. He told the watch sergeant about the two men he encountered and asked him to send a patrol car.

“That kind of stuff happens on every block down there in that hellhole,” the sergeant said. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I want you to send a car and roust them. They’ll think twice about doing anything to anybody.”

“Well, why didn’t you do anything about it yourself?”

“Because I’m working a case, Sergeant, and I can’t get off it to do your job or your paperwork.”

“Look, buddy, don’t be telling me how to do my job. You suits are all the same. You think -”

“Look, Sergeant, I’m going to check the crime reports in the morning. If I read that somebody got hurt down here and the suspects were a black and white team, then you’re going to have more suits around you than at the Men’s Warehouse. I guarantee it.”

Bosch closed his phone, cutting off a last protest from the watch sergeant. He picked up his pace, got to his car and started back over to the 101 Freeway. He then headed back up to the Valley.

FINDING COVER with a visual line on Tampa Towing was difficult. Both strip shopping plazas located on the other corners were closed and their parking lots empty. Bosch would be obvious if he parked in either one. The competing service station on the third corner was still open and thus, unusable for surveillance. After considering the situation Bosch parked on Roscoe a block away and walked back to the intersection. Borrowing an idea from the would-be robbers of less than an hour before, he found a darkened alcove in one of the strip plazas from which he could watch the service station. He knew the problem with his choice of surveillance was getting back to his car fast enough to avoid losing Mackey when he went off shift.

The ad he had checked earlier in the phone book said Tampa Towing offered twenty-four-hour service. But it was coming up on midnight and Bosch was betting that Mackey, who had come on duty at 4 p.m., would be getting off soon. He would either be replaced by a midnight man or would be on call through the night.

It was at times like this that Bosch thought about smoking again. It always seemed to make the time go faster and it took the edge off the anxiety that always built through a surveillance. But it had been more than four years now and he didn’t want to break stride. Learning two years earlier that he was a father had helped him get past the occasional weaknesses. He thought that if not for his daughter he’d probably be smoking again. At best he had controlled the addiction. By no means had he broken it.

He took out his cell phone and angled the light from its screen away from view of the service station while he punched in Kiz Rider’s home number. She didn’t answer. He tried her cell and got no answer again. He assumed she had shut down the phones so she could concentrate on writing the warrant. She had worked it that way in the past. He knew she would leave her pager on for emergencies but he didn’t think the news he had gathered during the evening’s phone calls rose to the level of emergency. He decided to wait until he saw her in the morning to tell her what he had learned.

He put his phone in his pocket and raised the binoculars to his eyes. Through the glass windows of the service station office he could see Mackey sitting behind a weathered gray desk. There was another man in a similar blue on blue uniform in the office. It must have been a slow night. Both of the men had their feet propped up on the desk and were looking up at something high on the wall over the front window. Bosch could not see what they were focused on but the changing light in the room told him it was a television.

Bosch’s phone chirped and he pulled it from his pocket and answered without lowering the binoculars. He didn’t check the display because he assumed it was Kiz Rider calling after noticing that she had missed his call.

“Hey.”

“Detective Bosch?”

It wasn’t Rider. Bosch lowered the field glasses.

“Yes, this is Bosch. How can I help you?”

“This is Tara Wood. I got your message.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks for calling back.”

“It sounds like this is your cell. I’m sorry to call so late. I just got in. I thought I was just going to leave a message on your office line.”

“No problem. I’m still working.”

Bosch went through the same interview process he had employed with the others. As he mentioned the name Roland Mackey to her he checked on Mackey through the glasses. He was still at the desk, watching the tube. Like Rebecca Verloren’s other friends, Tara Wood didn’t recognize the tow truck driver’s name. Bosch added a new question, asking if she remembered the Chatsworth Eights, and her memory was vague about that as well. Lastly he asked if the next day he could continue the interview and show her a photograph of Mackey. She agreed but told him he would have to come to the CBS television studios, where she worked as a publicist. Bosch knew that CBS was next to the Farmers Market, one of his favorite places in the city. He decided he could go to the market, maybe eat a bowl of gumbo for lunch, and then go see Tara Wood to show the photo of Mackey and ask about Rebecca Verloren’s pregnancy. He made the appointment for 1 p.m. and she agreed to be in her office.

“This is such an old case,” Wood said. “Are you like on a cold case squad?”

“We actually call it the Open-Unsolved Unit.”

“You know, we have a show called Cold Case. It’s on Sunday nights. It’s one of the shows I work on. I’m thinking… maybe you could visit the set and meet some of your television counterparts. I am sure they would love to meet you.”