9 Dragons

going to sit in a car all night watching some triad guy and your paycheck is going to look the same no matter how many hours you’re gone.”
    Bosch put his hands up as if to say
enough said
.
    “You’re right. I don’t have to sell it. I just have to do it. That’s the job.”

14
    F rom behind the wheel of his own car, Bosch watched Chang as he performed menial chores at Tsing Motors in Monterey Park. The car lot had formerly been a 1950s-style gas station with two garage bays and an attached office. Bosch was parked a half block away on busy Garvey Avenue and was in no danger of being made. Chu was in his own car half a block past the car lot in the other direction. Using their personal cars for the surveillance was a violation of departmental policy but Bosch had checked with the motor pool and there were no undercover vehicles available. The choice was to use their unmarked detective cruisers, which might as well have been painted black and white for all the camouflage they offered, or to break policy. Bosch didn’t mind breaking policy because he had a six-CD stack in his car. Today he had it loaded with music from his latest discovery. Tomasz Stan´ko was a Polish trumpeter who sounded like the ghost of Miles Davis. His horn was sharp and soulful. It was good surveillance music. It kept Bosch alert.
    For almost three hours they had watched their suspect handle his mundane duties on the lot. He had washed cars, greased tires to make them look new, even taken the one prospective customer on a test drive of a 1989 Mustang. And for the past half hour he had been systematically moving each of the three dozen cars on the lot to new positions in an effort to make it appear that the inventory was changing, that there was sales activity and that business was good.
    At 4 P.M. “Soul of Things” came out of the stack and Bosch couldn’t help but think that even Miles would grudgingly give Stan´ko his due. Harry was following the groove with his fingers on the steering wheel when he saw Chang go into the small office and change his shirt. When he stepped out he was finished for the day. He got into the Mustang and drove by himself off the lot.
    Bosch’s phone immediately buzzed with a call from Chu. Harry killed the music.
    “You got him?” Chu asked. “He’s moving.”
    “Yeah, I see.”
    “Heading up to the ten. You think he’s done for the day?”
    “He changed his shirt. I think he’s done. I’ll take the lead and then you be ready to move up.”
    Bosch followed five car lengths behind and then caught up as Chang headed west on the 10 toward downtown. He was not going home. Bosch and Chu had followed him the night before to an apartment in Monterey Park-also owned by Vincent Tsing-and had watched the place for an hour after the lights had gone out and they felt comfortable with the belief that he was in for the night.
    Now he was heading into L.A. and Bosch’s instincts told him he was carrying out triad business. He sped up and passed by the Mustang, holding his cell phone up to his ear so Chang wouldn’t get a look at his face. He called Chu and told him he was now on point.
    Bosch and Chu continued to trade off the point while Chang connected to the 101 Freeway and headed north through Hollywood toward the Valley. Traffic bogged down in the rush-hour crunch and following the suspect was easy. It took Chang nearly an hour to get up to Sherman Oaks, where he finally exited on the Sepulveda Boulevard ramp. Bosch called Chu.
    “I think he’s going to the other store,” he told his surveillance partner.
    “I think you’re right. Should we call Robert Li and warn him?”
    Bosch paused. It was a good question. He had to decide whether Robert Li was in danger. If so, he should be warned. But if he was not in danger, a warning could blow the whole operation.
    “No, not yet. Let’s see what happens. If Chang goes into the store, we go in with him. And we’ll step in if things go wrong.”
    “You sure, Harry?”
    “No, but that’s how we’ll play it. Make sure you make the light.”
    They held the connection. The light at the bottom of the ramp had just turned green. Bosch was four cars behind Chang but Chu was at least eight.
    Traffic moved slowly and Bosch crept along, watching the light. It turned yellow just as he hit the intersection. He made it but Chu wouldn’t.
    “Okay, I got him,” he said into the phone. “No worries.”
    “Good. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
    Bosch