It was Rider.

“Great, now I can’t go back to sleep. You better be bright-eyed tonight, Harry, because I won’t be.”

“Sorry, Kiz. I will.”

“Read me the story.”

He did, and when he was finished she seemed to have caught some of his excitement. They both knew that the story would play perfectly into provoking a response from Mackey. The key would be to make sure that he saw it and read it, and they thought they had that covered.

“Okay, Harry, I’m going to get going. I have some things to do today.”

“All right, Kiz, see you up there. How ’bout we meet at quarter to six on Tampa about a block south of the service station?”

“I’ll be there unless something happens before.”

“Yeah, me too.”

After hanging up, Bosch went into his bedroom and changed into fresh clothes that would be comfortable during an all-night surveillance and useful as well for the play he intended for Mackey. He chose a white T-shirt that had been washed many times and had shrunk so that its sleeves were tight and short on his biceps. Before putting on a shirt over it he checked his look in the mirror. A full half of the skull was exposed and the SS bolts pointed up above the cotton on his neck.

The tattoos looked more authentic than they had the night before. He had taken a shower at Vicki Landreth’s and she told him that the water would slightly blur the ink on his skin as was the case with most prison-applied tattoos. She warned him that the ink would start to wash away after two or three showers and, if needed, she could maintain his look with further applications. He told her he wasn’t planning on needing the tattoos more than one day. They would work or not work when he made his play.

He put on a long-sleeved button-down shirt over the T-shirt. He checked this in the mirror and thought he could see details of the skull tattoo bleeding through the cotton. The thick black swastika on the crown was coming through.

Ready to go but with hours before he was needed, Bosch paced nervously around his living room for a few moments, wondering what to do. He decided to call his daughter, hoping that her sweet voice and cheerfulness would give him an added charge for the day.

He got the number for the Intercontinental Hotel in Kowloon off the Post-it on his refrigerator and punched it into his phone. It would be almost 8 p.m. there. His daughter should still be awake. But when his call was connected to Eleanor Wish’s room there was no answer. He wondered if he had the time change wrong. Maybe he was calling too early or too late.

After six rings an answering service picked up, giving Bosch instructions in English and Cantonese in how to leave a message. He left a short message for both Eleanor and his daughter and hung up the phone.

Now not wanting to dwell on his daughter or thoughts about where she was, Bosch opened the murder book and began reviewing its contents again, always looking for details of the case he had possibly missed. Despite everything he had learned about the case and how it was pushed off track by the powers that be, he still believed in the book. He believed the answers to the mysteries were always found in the details.

He finished a read-through and was going to take up the copy of Mackey’s probation file when he thought of something and called Muriel Verloren. She was at home.

“Did you see the story in the paper?” he asked.

“Yes, it makes me feel so sad to see that.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it makes it all real to me. I had pushed it away.”

“I’m sorry but it is going to help us. I promise. I’m glad you did it. Thank you.”

“Whatever will help I want to do.”

“Thank you, Muriel. Listen, I wanted to tell you that I located your husband. I spoke to him yesterday morning.”

There was a long silence before she spoke.

“Really? Where is he?”

“Down on Fifth Street. He runs a soup kitchen for the homeless. He serves breakfast to them. It’s called the Metro Shelter. I thought you might want to know.”

Again a silence. Bosch guessed she wanted to ask him questions and he was willing to wait.

“You mean he works there?”

“Yes. He’s sober now. He said it’s been three years. I guess he first went there for a meal and he’s sort of worked his way up. He runs the kitchen now. And it’s good food. I ate there yesterday.”

“I see.”

“Um, I have a number that he gave me. It’s not a direct line. He doesn’t have a phone in his room. But it’s in the kitchen and he’s there in the mornings. He said it slows down after about nine.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want the number, Muriel?”

This question was followed by the longest silence of all. Bosch finally answered the question himself.

“I’ll tell you what, Muriel. I’ve got the number, and if you ever want it you can just call me. Is that okay?”

“That would be fine, Detective. Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m going to go now. We’re hoping something breaks on the case today.”

“Please call me.”

“It will be the first call I make.”

After hanging up, Bosch realized that talking about breakfast had made him hungry. It was now almost noon and he hadn’t eaten anything since the steak at Musso’s the night before. He decided that he would go into the bedroom and rest for a while and then have a late lunch before reporting for the surveillance. He would go over to Dupar’s in Studio City. It was on the way out to Northridge. Pancakes were the perfect surveillance food. He would order a full stack of buttered pancakes and they would sit in his stomach like clay and keep him full all night if necessary.

In the bedroom he lay on his back and shut his eyes. He tried to think of the case but his mind wandered to the drunken time he got the tattoo put on his arm in a dirty studio in Saigon. As he drifted off to sleep he remembered the man with the needle and his smile and his body odor. He remembered the man had said, “Are you sure? Remember, you’ll be marked forever with this.”

Bosch had smiled back and said, “I already am.”

Then in his dream the man’s smiling face turned into Vicki Landreth’s face. She had red lipstick smeared across her mouth. She held up a buzzing tattoo needle.

She said, “Are you ready, Michael?”

He said, “I’m not Michael.”

She said, “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter who you are. Everybody’s dodging the needle. But nobody gets away.”

KIZ RIDER WAS already at the meeting spot when Bosch got there. He got out of his car and brought the murder book and the other files to her car, a nondescript white Taurus.

“You have any room in your trunk?” he asked before getting in.

“It’s empty. Why?”

“Pop it. I forgot to leave my spare tire at home.”

He went back to his car, a Mercedes-Benz SUV, and took the spare tire out of the back and transferred it to Rider’s trunk. Using a screwdriver from the tool kit he removed the license plates from his car and put them in the trunk as well. He then got in with her and they drove up Tampa to the plaza shopping center across from the service station where Mackey worked. The day team, Marcia and Jackson, were waiting in their car in the lot.

The space next to them was open and Rider pulled in. Everybody put down their windows so they could talk and transfer the two rovers without having to get out of their cars. Bosch took the radios but knew he and Rider wouldn’t use them.

“Well?” Bosch asked.

“Well, nothing,” Jackson said. “Seems like we’re pumping a dry hole here, Harry.”

“Nothing at all?” Rider asked.

“There has been absolutely no indication at all that he’s seen the paper or that anybody he knows has seen it. We checked with the sound room twenty minutes ago and this guy hasn’t even gotten a phone call, let alone one about this. He hasn’t even had a tow call since he came on.”