The Black Echo

muffled impact. Two or three of them. Shots? He thought of Eleanor, and his heart was pushed by a fist up into his throat. Or had the sound been car doors closing? He looked at the Mercedes but could only see the trunk and taillights. He saw no one around the car. Back at the front corner; no Eleanor. Then back at the Mercedes, and he saw the brake lights go on. Bok was leaving. Bosch started the car and drove up to the corner, his rear tires spitting gravel as he gunned it forward. At the corner he saw Eleanor walking along the sidewalk toward him. He honked the horn and signaled for her to hurry. Eleanor trotted to the car and was just getting in when the Mercedes appeared in Bosch’s rearview mirror and turned out of the alley toward them.
    “Get down,” he said and pulled Eleanor down on the seat.
    The Mercedes floated by and turned onto Bolsa. He released his grip on her neck. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded as she came up.
    Bosch pointed at the Mercedes, which was heading away. “They were coming by. You would’ve been made because you went in the office today. What took you so long?”
    “They had to track down Rourke. He wasn’t in his office.”
    Harry pulled out and started following the Mercedes from a distance of about two blocks. After a long moment composing herself, Eleanor said, “Is he by himself?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t see him get in. I was looking up at the corner for you. I think I heard more than one car door close. I’m sure I did.”
    “But you don’t know if Tran was one of them who got in?”
    “Right. Don’t know. But it’s getting late. I figure it’s gotta be him.”
    Bosch realized then that he might have fallen for the oldest ruse in the surveillance book. Bok, or Tran, or whoever he was, could have simply sent one of his minions in the hundred-thousand-dollar car to draw away the tail.
    “What do you think, go back?” he said.
    Wish didn’t answer until he looked over at her. “No,” she said. “Go with what we got. Don’t second-guess yourself. You’re right about the time. A lot of banks close at five before a holiday weekend. He had to get going. He was warned by Binh. I think it’s him.”
    Bosch felt better. The Mercedes turned west and then north again on the Golden State Freeway toward Los Angeles. The traffic crept slowly into downtown, and then the gold car went west on the Santa Monica Freeway, exiting on Robertson at twenty minutes before five. They were heading into Beverly Hills. Wilshire Boulevard was lined with banks from downtown to the ocean. As the Mercedes turned west, Bosch felt they had to be close. Tran would keep his treasure at a bank near his home, he thought. The gamble had been right. He relaxed a bit and finally got around to asking Eleanor what Rourke had said when she called in.
    “He confirmed through the Orange County clerk’s office that Jimmie Bok is Nguyen Tran. They had a fictitious name filing. He changed his name nine years ago. We should’ve checked Orange County. I forgot about Little Saigon.
    “Also,” she said, “if this guy Tran had diamonds, he might have used them all up already. Property recs show he owns two more shopping centers like that one back there. In Monterey Park and Diamond Bar.”
    Bosch told himself it was still possible. The diamonds could be the collateral for the real estate empire. Just like with Binh. He kept his eyes on the Mercedes, only a block ahead now because rush hour was in full force and he didn’t want to get cut off. He watched the black windows of the car move along the rich street, and he told himself it was heading to the diamonds.
    “And I saved the best for last,” Wish announced then. “Mr. Bok, also known as Mr. Tran, controls his many holdings through a corporation. The title of said corporation, according to the records check by Special Agent Rourke, is none other than Diamond Holdings, Incorporated.”
    They passed Rodeo Drive and were in the heart of the commercial district. The buildings lining Wilshire took on more stateliness, as if they knew they had more money and class in them. Traffic slowed to a crawl in some areas, and Bosch got as close as two car lengths behind the Mercedes, not wanting to lose the car on a missed light. They were almost to Santa Monica Boulevard and Bosch was beginning to figure they were headed to Century City. Bosch looked at his watch. It was four-fifty. “If this guy is going to a bank in