The concrete blonde - By Michael Connelly Page 0,127

to cross the street when he heard a transmission from the radio. He got his keys back out, unlocked the car and got back in. He turned the radio up.

“What's that, One? I missed it.”

“Subject is moving. Westbound on Hollywood.”

“On foot?”

“Negative.”

Shit, Bosch thought. He sat in the car for another forty-five minutes while Sheehan radioed reports of Mora's seemingly aimless cruising up and down Hollywood Boulevard. He wondered what Mora was doing. The cruising was not part of the profile of the second killer. The Follower, as far as they knew, worked exclusively out of hotels. That's where he lured his victims. The cruising didn't fit.

The radio was quiet for ten minutes and then Sheehan came up on the air again.

“He's dropping down to the strip.”

The Sunset Strip was another problem altogether. The strip was in L.A. but directly south of it was West Hollywood, sheriff's department jurisdiction. If Mora dropped down south and started to make some kind of move, it could result in jurisdictional problems. A guy like Hans Off was completely frightened of jurisdictional problems.

“He's down to Santa Monica Boulevard now.”

That was West Hollywood. Bosch expected Rollenberger to come up soon on the radio. He wasn't wrong.

“Team One, this is Team Leader. What is the subject doing?”

“If I didn't know what this guy was into, I'd say he was cruising Boystown.”

“All right, Team One, keep an eye on him but we don't want any contact. We're out of bounds here. I'll contact the sheriff's watch office and inform.”

“We're not planning any contact.”

Five minutes passed. Bosch watched a man walking his guard dog down Sierra Linda. He stopped to let the animal relieve itself on the burned-out lawn in front of the abandoned house.

“We're cool,” Sheehan's voice said. “We're back in the country.”

Meaning back inside the boundaries of Los Angeles.

“One, what's your twenty?” Bosch asked.

“Still Santa Monica, going east. Past La Brea—no, he's northbound now on La Brea. He might be going home.”

Bosch slid low in his seat in case Mora came down the street. He listened as Sheehan reported that the vice cop was now eastbound on Sunset.

“Just passed Sierra Linda.”

Mora was staying out. Bosch sat back up. He listened to five minutes of silence.

“He's going to the Dome,” Sheehan finally said.

“The Dome?” Bosch responded.

“Movie theater on Sunset just past Wilcox. He's parked. He's paying for a ticket and is going in. Musta just been driving around till showtime.”

Bosch tried to picture the area in his mind. The huge geodesic dome was one of Hollywood's landmark theaters.

“Team One, this is Team Leader. I want to split you up here. One of you goes in with the subject, one stays on the car, out.”

“Roger that. Team One, out.”

The Dome was ten minutes away from Sierra Linda. Bosch figured that meant that at maximum he had an hour and a half inside the house unless Mora left the movie early.

He quickly got out of the car again, crossed the street and moved up the block to Mora's house. The wide porch completely cloaked the front door in shadows. Bosch knocked on it and while he waited he turned to look at the house across the street. There were lights on downstairs and he could see the bluish glow of a TV on the curtains behind one of the upstairs rooms.

Nobody answered. He stepped back and appraised the front windows. He saw no warnings about security systems, no alarm tape on the glass. He looked between the bars and through the glass into what he believed was the living room. He looked up into the corners of the ceiling, searching for the dull glow of a motion detector. As he expected, there was nothing. Every cop knew the best defense was a good lock or a mean dog. Or both.

He went back to the door, opened the pouch and took out the penlight. There was black electrical tape over the end so that when he switched it on only a narrow beam of light was emitted. He knelt down and looked at the locks on the door. Mora had a dead bolt and a common key-entry knob. Bosch put the penlight in his mouth and aimed the beam at the dead bolt. With two picks, a tension wrench and a hook, he began working. It was a good lock with twelve teeth, not a Medeco but a cheaper knockoff. It took Bosch ten minutes to turn it. By then sweat had come down out of his hair and was stinging