The Concrete Blonde (hb-3)

held back so the loonies who confessed would not know exactly what to confess to. It was a safeguard. The task force could quickly eliminate the bogus confessions.”
    “So?”
    “So the question is, how did the follower know?”
    “I don’t—“
    “Yes, you do. The book Mr. Bremmer wrote made those details available to the world. That, of course, could account for the concrete blonde... But not, as I am sure you have realized, for victims seven and eleven.”
    Locke was right. It was what Bosch had realized earlier. He avoided thinking about it because he dreaded the implications.
    Locke said, “The answer is that the follower was somehow privy to the details. The details are what triggered his action. You have to remember that what we are dealing with here is someone who very likely was already in the midst of some great internal struggle when he stumbled onto an erotic program that matched his own needs. This man already had problems, whether they had manifested in his committing crimes or not. He was a sick puppy, Harry, and he saw the Dollmaker’s erotic mold and realized, That’s me. That’s what I want, what I need for fulfillment. He then adopted the Dollmaker’s program and acted on it, to the very last detail. The question is, how did he stumble onto it? And the answer is, he was given access.”
    For a moment they just looked at each other, then Bosch spoke.
    “You’re talking about a cop. Someone on the task force. That can’t be. I was there. We all wanted this guy to go down. Nobody was... getting off on this, man.”
    “Possibly a member of the task force, Harry, only possibly. But remember, the circle of those who knew about the program was much larger than just the task force. You have medical examiners, investigators, beat cops, photographers, reporters, paramedics, the passersby who found the bodies-many people who had access to details the follower obviously knew about.”
    Bosch tried to pull together a quick profile in his mind. Locke read him.
    “It would have to be someone in or around the investigation, Harry. Not necessarily a vital part or a continuous part. But someone who intersected with the investigation at a point that would allow him to gain knowledge of the full program. More than what was publicly known at the time.”
    Bosch said nothing until Locke prompted him.
    “What else, Harry? Narrow it down.”
    “Left—handed.”
    “Possibly but not necessarily. Church was left-handed. The follower may only have used the left hand to make the perfect copy of Church’s crimes.”
    “That’s right but then there are the notes. Suspicious docs said they believed it was a left-handed writer. They weren’t one hundred percent. They never are.”
    “Okay, then, possibly left-handed. What else?”
    Bosch thought for a moment.
    “Maybe a smoker. There was a package found in the concrete. Kaminski, the victim, didn’t smoke.”
    “Okay, that’s good. These are the things you need to think about to narrow it down. It’s in the details, Harry, I’m sure of it.”
    A cool wind came down the hillside and in through the French doors and chilled Bosch. It was time to go, to be alone with this.
    “Thanks again,” he said as he started once more for the door.
    “What will you do?” Locke called after him.
    “I don’t know yet.”
    “Harry?”
    Bosch stopped at the threshold and looked back at Locke, the pool glowing eerily in the darkness behind him.
    “The follower, he may be the smartest to come along in a long time.”
    “Because he’s a cop?”
    “Because he probably knows everything about the case that you know.”

    * * *

    It was cold in the Caprice. At night the canyons always carried a dark chill. Bosch turned the car around and it floated quietly down Lookout Mountain to Laurel Canyon. He took a right and drove to the canyon market, where he bought a six-pack of Anchor Steam. Then he took his beer and his questions back up the hill to Mulholland.
    He drove to Woodrow Wilson Drive and then down to his small house that stood on cantilevers and looked out across the Cahuenga Pass. He had left no lights on inside because with Sylvia in his life he never knew how long he would go without being here.
    He opened the first beer as soon as the Caprice was parked at the curb in front. A car slowly went by and left him in the dark. He watched one of the beams from the spotlights at Universal City cut across the clouds over the house. Another one chased after it a