The Concrete Blonde (hb-3)

humps on this job, no freeloading. All right, that’s it.”
    Rollenberger sat down then and pulled his chair close to the table. Bosch figured it was to cover up an erection, he seemed to get off so much on being the taskmaster here. All of them but Hans Off pushed into the hallway then and headed to the elevator.
    “Who’s drinking tonight?” Sheehan asked.
    “More like, who isn’t,” Opelt answered.

    * * *

    Bosch got to his house by seven, after having only one beer at the Code Seven and finding that the alcohol was a turn-off after the overindulgence of the night before. He called Sylvia and told her there was no verdict yet. He said he was going to shower and change clothes and he would be up to see her by eight.
    His hair was still damp when she opened her door. She grabbed him as soon as he stepped in and they held each other and kissed in the entry of her house for a long time. It was only when she stepped back that he saw she was wearing a black dress with a neckline that cut deeply between her breasts and a hemline about four inches over her knees.
    “How’d it go today, the closing arguments and all?”
    “Fine. What are you all dressed up for?”
    “Because I am taking you out to dinner. I made reservations.”
    She leaned into him and kissed him on the mouth.
    “Harry, last night was the best night we’ve ever had together. It was the best night I can remember with anyone. And not because of the sex. Actually, you and I have done better.”
    “Always room for improvement. How ‘bout a little practice before dinner?”
    She smiled and told him there was no time.
    They drove down through the Valley and into Malibu Canyon to the Saddle Peak Lodge. It was an old hunting lodge and the menu featured a vegetarian’s nightmare. It was all meat, from venison to buffalo. They each had a steak and Sylvia ordered a bottle of Merlot. Bosch sipped his slowly. He thought the meal and the evening were wonderful. They talked little about the case or anything else. They did a lot of looking at each other.
    When they returned to her house, Sylvia turned down the air-conditioner thermostat and built a fire in the living room fireplace. He just watched her; he had never been good at building fires that lasted. Even with the AC on sixty it got very warm. They made love on a blanket she spread out in front of the fireplace. They were perfectly relaxed and moved smoothly together.
    Afterward, he watched the fire reflect on the light sheen of sweat on her chest. He kissed her there and put his head down to listen to her heart. The rhythm was strong and it beat counterpoint to his own. He closed his eyes and started thinking of ways to guard against ever losing this woman.
    The fire was nothing but a few glowing embers when he woke up in the darkness. There was a shrill sound and he was very cold.
    “Your beeper,” Sylvia said.
    He crawled to the pile of clothes near the couch, traced the sound and cut it off.
    “God, what time is it?” she said.
    “I don’t know.”
    “That’s scary. I remember when-”
    She stopped herself. Bosch knew it was a story about her husband that she was about to tell. She must have decided not to let his memory intrude here. But it was too late. Bosch found himself wondering if Sylvia and her husband had ever turned down the thermostat on a summer night and made love in front of the fireplace on that same blanket.
    “Aren’t you going to call?”
    “Huh? Oh. Yeah. I’m, uh, just trying to wake up.”
    He pulled his pants on and went into the kitchen. He slid the door closed so the light would not bother her. After flicking the switch he looked at the clock on the wall. It was a plate and where the numbers should be were different vegetables. It was half past the carrot, meaning one-thirty. He realized he and Sylvia had been asleep only about an hour. It had seemed like days.
    The number had an 818 area code and he didn’t recognize it. Jerry Edgar picked up after a half ring.
    “Harry?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Sorry to bother you, man, especially since you’re not home.”
    “It’s okay. What’s up?”
    “I’m on Sepulveda just south of Roscoe. I got her, man.”
    Bosch knew he was talking about the survivor.
    “What’d she say? She look at Mora’s picture?”
    “No. No, man, I don’t really have her. I’m watching her. She’s on the stroll here.”
    “Well, why don’t you pick her up?”
    “Because I’m alone. I think I could use some backup. I try to take