The Reversal

join the SIS surveillance, Lieutenant Wright arranged his schedule to work Saturday night and be the driver of the car the visitors were assigned to. The pickup point was in Venice at a public parking lot six blocks off the beach. Bosch met McPherson there and then he put a radio call in to Wright, saying they were ready and waiting. Fifteen minutes later a white SUV entered the lot and drove up to them. Bosch gave McPherson the front seat and he climbed into the back. He wasn’t being chivalrous. The long bench seat would allow him to stretch out during the long night of surveillance.
    “Steve Wright,” the lieutenant said, offering McPherson his hand.
    “Maggie McPherson. Thanks for letting me come along.”
    “No sweat. We always like it when the District Attorney’s Office takes an interest. Let’s hope tonight is worth your while.”
    “Where’s Jessup now?”
    “When I left he was at the Brig on Abbot Kinney. He likes crowded places, which works in our favor. I have a couple guys inside and a few more on the street. We’re kind of used to his rhythm now. He hits a place, waits to be recognized and for people to start buying him drinks, then he moves on—quickly if he isn’t recognized.”
    “I guess I’m more interested in his late-night travels than his drinking habits.”
    “It’s good that he’s out drinking,” Bosch said from the backseat. “There’s a causal relationship. The nights he takes in alcohol are usually the nights he goes up to Mulholland.”
    Wright nodded in agreement and headed the SUV out of the lot. He was a perfect surveillance man because he didn’t look like a cop. In his late fifties with glasses, a thinning hairline and always two or three pens in his shirt pocket, he looked more like an accountant. But he had been with the SIS for more than two decades and had been in on several of the squad’s kills. Every five years or so the Times did a story on the SIS, usually analyzing its kill record. In the last exposé Bosch remembered reading, the paper had labeled Wright “SIS’s unlikely chief gunslinger.” While the reporters and editors behind the story probably viewed that as an editorial putdown, Wright wore it like a badge of honor. He had the sobriquet printed below his name on his business card. In quotes, of course.
    Wright drove down Abbot Kinney Boulevard and past the Brig, which was located in a two-story building on the east side of the street. He went two blocks down and made a U-turn. He came back up the street and pulled to the curb in front of a fire hydrant a half block from the bar.
    The lighted sign outside the Brig depicted a boxer in a ring, his red gloves up and ready. It was an image that seemed at odds with the name of the bar, but Bosch knew the story behind it. As a much younger man he had lived in the neighborhood. He knew the sign with the boxer was put up by a former owner who had bought out the original owners. The new man was a retired fighter and had decorated the interior with a boxing motif. He also put the sign up out front. There was still a mural on the side of the building that depicted the fighter and his wife, but they were long gone now.
    “This is Five,” Wright said. “What’s our status?”
    He was talking to the microphone clipped to the sun visor over his head. Bosch knew there was a foot button on the floor that engaged it. The return speaker was under the dash. The radio setup in the cars allowed the surveillance cops to keep their hands free while driving and, more important, helped them maintain their cover. Talking into a handheld rover was a dead giveaway. The SIS was too good for that.
    “Three,” a voice said over the radio. “Retro is still in the location along with One and Two.”
    “Roger that,” Wright said.
    “Retro?” McPherson said.
    “Our name for him,” Wright said. “Our freqs are pretty far down the bandwidth and on the FCC registry they’re listed as DWP channels, but you never know who might be listening. We don’t use the names of people or locations on the air.”
    “Got it.”
    It wasn’t even nine yet. Bosch wasn’t expecting Jessup to leave anytime soon, especially if people were buying him drinks. As they settled in, Wright seemed to like McPherson and liked informing her about procedures and the art of high-level surveillance. She might have been bored with it but she never let on.
    “See, once we establish a subject’s rhythms and routines we can react much better.