The Black Echo

his wallet and used it to pick his teeth. His mouth tasted as though there was still a piece of breakfast sausage in there somewhere. He slid the paper card in and out between his teeth until they felt clean. He made a smacking, unsatisfied sound with his mouth.
    “What?” Detective Don Clarke said. He knew his partner’s behavioral nuances. The teeth picking and lip smacking meant something was bothering him.
    “I think he made us, is all,” Lewis said after flipping the card out the window into the street. “That little look he threw down the street when they got out of the car. He was very quick, but I think he made us.”
    “He didn’t make us. If he did, he woulda come charging down here to start up a commotion or something. That’s how they do it. Make a commotion, file a lawsuit. He’d’ve had the Police Protective League up our ass by now. I’m telling you, cops are the last to notice a tail.”
    “Well… I guess,” Lewis said.
    He let it go for the moment. But he stayed worried. He didn’t want to mess up this job. He’d had Bosch by the balls once before and the guy skated because Irving, that flying jaw, had pulled Lewis and Clarke back. But not this time, Lewis silently promised himself. This time he goes down.
    “You taking notes?” he asked his partner. “What do you think they’re doing in that dump?”
    “Looking for something.”
    “You’re shitting me. You really think so?”
    “Jeez, who put the pencil up your ass today?”
    Lewis looked away from the Chateau to Clarke, who had his hands folded on his lap and his seat back at a sixty-degree angle. With his mirrored glasses shielding his eyes, it was impossible to tell if he was awake or not.
    “Are you taking notes or what?” Lewis said loudly.
    “If you want notes, whyn’t you takin’ ’em?”
    “Because I’m driving. That’s always the deal. You don’t want to drive, you gotta write and take the pictures. Now, write something down so we have something to show Irving. Otherwise he’ll write up a one eighty-one on us and forget about Bosch.”
    “That’s one
point
eighty-one. Let’s not take shortcuts, even in our language.”
    “Fuck off.”
    Clarke snickered and took a notebook out of his inside coat pocket and a gold Cross pen from his shirt pocket. When Lewis was satisfied that notes were being taken and looked back at the motel, he saw a teenage boy with blond dreadlocks circle twice in the road on a yellow motorbike. The boy pulled up next to the car Lewis had just watched Bosch and the FBI woman get out of. The boy shaded his eyes and looked through the driver’s-side window into the car.
    “Now, what’s this?” Lewis said.
    “Some kid,” Clarke said after looking up from his notes. “He’s looking for a stereo to snatch. If he makes a move, what are we going to do? Blow the surveillance to save some asshole’s tape deck?”
    “We aren’t going to do anything. And he’s not going to make a move. He sees the Motorola two-way. He knows it’s a cop car. He’s backing away now.”
    The boy revved the bike and did another two circles in the street. As the bike circled, he kept his eyes on the front of the motel. He then cruised through the side parking lot and back out onto the street. He stopped behind an old Volkswagen bus that was parked at the curb and shielded him from the motel. He seemed to be watching the entrance to the Chateau through the windows of the beat-up old bus. He did not notice the two IAD men in the car parked a half-block behind him.
    “Come on kid, get going,” Clarke said. “I don’t want to have to call out patrol on you. Fucking delinquent.”
    “Use the Nikon and get his picture,” Lewis said. “You never know. Something might happen and we’ll need it. And while you’re at it, get the number off the motel sign. We’ll have to call later and see what Bosch and the FBI girl were doing.”
    Lewis could have easily picked the camera up off the seat himself and taken the photos, but that would set a dangerous precedent that could harm the delicate balance of the rules of surveillance. The driver drives. The rider writes-and does all such related work.
    Clarke dutifully picked up the camera, which was equipped with a telephoto lens, and took the photos of the boy on the bike.
    “Get one with the bike’s plate,” Lewis said.
    “I know what I am doing,” Clarke said as he put the camera down.
    “Did you get the motel number? We’ll have to call.”
    “I