The Black Box

along the front sidewalk.
    There was a line of green tractors arranged small to large in front of the dealership. Behind them was a single-row parking lot and then the dealership with floor-to-ceiling glass windows running along the entire face of the building. Bosch hopped out of his car and grabbed a pair of small but powerful binoculars from one of the equipment boxes in the trunk. Returning to the front seat, he used the binos to look into the dealership. At each front corner was a desk with a salesman behind it. Between them ran another line of tractors and ATVs, all of them grass-green and shining.
    Bosch opened his file and checked the DMV photo of Banks that Chu had provided. Looking back at the dealership, he easily identified Banks as the balding man with a drooping mustache at the desk in the corner closest to Bosch. He watched the man, studying him in profile because of the angle of the desk. While Banks looked like he was studiously engaged with something on his computer screen, Bosch could tell he was playing solitaire. He had angled the screen so that it could not be seen from within the showroom, most likely by his boss.
    After a while Bosch got bored watching Banks, started the car, and pulled away from the curb. As he did so, he checked the rearview and saw a blue compact pulling away from the curb five parked cars back. He made his way on Crows Landing Road back to the 99, intermittently checking the mirror and seeing the car trailing in traffic behind him. It didn’t concern him. He was on a major traffic artery, and lots of cars were going the way he was going. But when he eased up on the accelerator and started letting cars go by him, the blue car slowed to match his speed and continued to hang back. Finally, Bosch pulled to the curb in front of an auto parts store and watched his mirror. Half a block back, the blue car turned right and disappeared, leaving Bosch to wonder if he was being followed or not.
    Bosch pulled back into traffic and continued to check his mirror as he headed to the CA-99 entrance. Along the way, he passed what seemed like an unending parade of Mexican food joints and used-car lots, the visual only broken up by the tire stores and auto repair and parts shops. The street was almost like one-stop shopping: buy a junker here and get it fixed up over there. Grab a fish taco at the mariscos truck while you’re waiting. It depressed Bosch to think about all the road dust on those tacos.
    Just as he spotted the entrance ramp to CA-99, he also saw his first “Drummond for Congress” sign. It was 4 × 6 and posted on a safety fence that crossed the overpass. The sign, which had Drummond’s smiling face on it, could be seen by all who headed north on the freeway below. Bosch noticed that someone had drawn a Hitler mustache on the candidate’s upper lip.
    As he came down the ramp to the freeway, Bosch checked the rearview and thought he saw the blue compact coming down behind him. Once he merged into traffic, he checked again, but traffic now obscured his view. He dismissed the sighting as paranoia.
    He headed north again, and just a few miles outside Modesto, he saw the exit for Hammett Road. He left the freeway again and followed Hammett west and deep into a grove of almond trees planted in perfect lines, their dark trunks rising from the flooded irrigation plain. The water was so still that it looked like the trees were growing out of a vast mirror.
    There was no way that he could have missed the entrance to the Cosgrove estate. The turnoff was wide and guarded by a brick wall and black-iron gate. There was an overhead camera and a call box for those who wished to enter. The letters CC were emblazoned on the gate.
    Bosch used the wide expanse of asphalt at the entrance to turn the car around as though he were a lost traveler. As he headed back on Hammett in the direction of the 99, he noted that the security was all about the entrance road to the estate. No one could drive on without obtaining permission and having the gate opened. But walking on was another story. There was no wall or fence prohibiting access. Anyone willing to get their feet wet could make their way in by slogging through the almond grove. Unless there were hidden cameras and motion sensors in the grove, it was a classic deficiency in security. All show and no go.
    As soon as he got back on the northbound 99 he passed the sign announcing his welcome to San Joaquin County. The nextthree exits were for the