The Closers

Bosch said, nodding his head. “That made the conditions a little more livable. I probably missed your friend, though. I got out in early ’ninety-eight.”
    “Frank Simmons. That’s his name. He was only there for like eighteen months or something. He was from Fresno.”
    “Frank Simmons from Fresno,” Bosch said as if trying to recall the name. “I don’t think I knew him.”
    “He’s good people.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “There was one guy who came in like a few weeks before I walked out of that place,” he said. “I heard he was from Fresno. But, man, I was on short time and I wasn’t into meeting new people, you know what I mean?”
    “Yeah, that’s cool. I was just wondering, you know.”
    “Did your guy have dark hair and his face had a lot a scars like from zits and stuff?”
    Mackey started smiling and nodding.
    “That’s him! That’s Frank. We used to call him Crater Face from Crater Lake.”
    “And I’m sure he was happy about that.”
    The tow truck turned onto Tampa and headed north. Bosch knew he might have more time with Mackey in the service station while the tire was being fixed but he couldn’t count on it. There could be another tow call or myriad other distractions. He had to finish the play and plant the seed now, while he was alone with the target. He picked up the newspaper and held it in his lap, glancing down as if he was reading the headlines. He had to figure out a way to naturally steer the conversation directly toward the Verloren article.
    Mackey took his right hand off the wheel and pulled off his glove by biting one of the fingers. It reminded Bosch of the way a child would do it. Mackey then extended his hand to Bosch.
    “I’m Ro, by the way.”
    Bosch shook his hand.
    “Ro?”
    “Short for Roland. Roland Mackey. Pleased to meet you.”
    “George Reichert,” Bosch said, giving the name he had made up after careful thought earlier in the day.
    “Reichert?” Mackey said. “German, right?”
    “Means ‘heart of the Reich.’”
    “That’s cool. And I guess that explains the Mercedes. You know, I deal with cars all fucking day. You can tell a lot about people by the cars they drive and how they take care of them.”
    “I suppose.”
    Bosch nodded. He now saw the direct way to his goal. Once again Mackey had unwittingly helped.
    “German engineering,” Bosch said. “The best fucking carmakers in the world. What do you drive when you’re not in this rig?”
    “I’m restoring a ’seventy-two Camaro. It’s going to be a sweet ride when I’m finished.”
    “Good year,” Bosch offered.
    “Yeah, but I wouldn’t buy anything out of Detroit nowadays. You know who’s making our cars now, don’t you? All the fucking mud people. I wouldn’t drive one, let alone put my family in one.”
    “In Germany,” Bosch responded, “you go into a factory and everybody’s got blue eyes, you know what I mean? I’ve seen pictures.”
    Mackey nodded thoughtfully. Bosch thought it was time to make the direct move. He unfolded the newspaper on his lap. He held it up so that the full front page, and the full Verloren story, could be seen.
    “Talk about mud people,” he said. “Did you read this story?”
    “No, what’s it say?”
    “It’s about this mother sittin’ on a bed boohooing about her mud child who got killed seventeen years ago. And the police are still on the case. But I mean, who cares, man?”
    Mackey glanced over at the paper and saw the photo with the inset shot of Rebecca Verloren’s face. But he didn’t say anything and his own face did not betray any recognition. Bosch lowered the paper so as not to be too obvious about it. He refolded it and discarded it on the seat between them. He pushed things one more time.
    “I mean, you mix the races like that and what are you going to get?” he asked.
    “Exactly,” Mackey said.
    It wasn’t a strong reply. It was almost hesitant, as if Mackey was thinking about something else. Bosch took this as a good sign. Maybe Mackey had just felt that cold finger go down his spine. Maybe it was the first time in seventeen years.
    Bosch decided he had given it his best shot. If he tried to do anything more he might cross the line into obviousness and give himself away. He decided to ride the rest of the way silently, and Mackey seemed to make the same choice.
    But a few blocks later Mackey swerved the truck into the second lane to get around a slow-moving Pinto.
    “You believe there is still one of those