The Concrete Blonde (47 page)

Bosch waited for Bremmer to either come around to the front to check his mail or to put lights on inside the house. When neither happened after five minutes, he got out and approached the driveway, his hand unconsciously tapping his sport coat on the side, making sure he had his Smith & Wesson. It was there, but he kept it holstered.

The driveway was unlit and in the recessed darkness of the open garage Bosch could only see the faint reflection of the red lenses of the taillights of Bremmer's car. But there was no sign of Bremmer.

A six-foot wooden-plank fence ran along the right side of the drive, separating Bremmer's property from his neighbor's. Branches of bougainvillea in bloom hung over and Bosch could hear faint television sounds from the house next door.

As he walked between the fence and Bremmer's house toward the garage, Bosch knew he was completely vulnerable. But he also knew that drawing his weapon couldn't help him here. Favoring the side of the drive nearest the house, he walked to the garage and stopped before its darkness. Standing beneath an old basketball goal with a bent rim, he said, “Bremmer?”

There was no sound save for the ticking of the engine of the car in the garage. Then, from behind, Bosch heard the light scraping of a shoe on concrete. He turned. Bremmer stood there, grocery bag in hand.

“What are you doing?” Bosch asked.

“That's what I should ask.”

Bosch watched his hands as he spoke.

“You never called. So I came by.”

“Called about what?”

“You wanted a comment about the verdict.”

“You were supposed to call me. Remember? Doesn't matter, the story's been put to bed now. Besides, the verdict kind of took a back seat to the other developments of the day, if you know what I mean. The story on the Follower—and Irving did use that name on the record—is going out front.”

Bosch took a few steps toward him.

“Then how come you're not at the Red Wind? I thought you said you always go for a pop when you hit the front page.”

Holding the bag in his right arm, Bremmer reached into the pocket of his coat but Bosch heard the sound of keys.

“I didn't feel like it tonight. I kind've liked Honey Chandler, you know? What are you really doing here, Harry? I saw you following me.”

“You going to ask me in? Maybe we can have that beer, toast your front-page story. One-A is what you reporters call it, right?”

“Yeah. This one's going above the fold.”

“Above the fold, I like that.”

They stared at each other in the darkness.

“Whaddaya say? About the beer.”

“Sure,” Bremmer said. He turned and went to the house's back door and unlocked it. He reached in and hit switches that turned on lights over the door and in the kitchen beyond. Then he stepped back and held out his arm for Bosch to go in first.

“After you. Go into the living room and have a seat. I'll get a couple bottles and be right there.”

Bosch walked through the kitchen and down a short hall to the living room and dining room. He didn't sit down but rather stood near the curtain drawn across one of the front windows. He parted it and looked into the street and at the houses across. There was no one. No one had seen him come here. He wondered if he had made a mistake.

He looked down at the old-style radiator beneath the window, touched it with his hand. It was cold. Its iron coils had been painted black.

He stood there for a few more moments and then turned and looked around at the rest of the room. It was nicely furnished with blacks and grays. Bosch sat on a black leather couch. He knew if he arrested Bremmer in the house, he would be able to make a quick cursory search of the premises. If he found anything of an incriminating nature all he had to do was come back with a warrant. Bremmer, being a police and courts reporter, would know that, too. Why'd he let me in? Bosch wondered. Have I made a mistake? He began to lose confidence in his plan.

Bremmer brought out two bottles, no glasses, and sat in a matching chair to Bosch's right. Bosch studied his bottle for a long moment. There was a bubble pushing up from the top. It burst and he held the bottle up and said, “Above the fold.”

“Above the fold,” Bremmer toasted back. He didn't smile. He took a pull from his bottle and put it down on the coffee table.

Bosch took a large gulp from his bottle and held it in his mouth. It was ice cold and hurt some of his teeth. There was no known history of the Dollmaker or the Follower using drugs on their victims. He looked at Bremmer, their eyes locked for a moment, and he swallowed. It felt good going down.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he held the bottle in his right hand and looked at Bremmer looking back at him. He knew from talking with Locke that the Follower would not be driven by conscience to admit anything. He had no conscience. The only way was trickery, to play on the killer's pride. He felt his confidence coming back. He stared at Bremmer with a glare that burned right throught him.

“What is it?” the reporter asked quietly.

“Tell me you did it for the stories, or the book. To get above the fold, to have a bestseller, whatever. But don't tell me you're the sick fuck the shrink says you are.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Skip the bullshit, Bremmer. It's you and you know I know it's you. Why else would I waste my time being here?”

“The Dol—the Follower? You're saying I'm the Follower? Are you crazy?”

“Are you? That's what I want to know.”

Bremmer was silent for a long time. He seemed to retreat into himself, like a computer running a long equation, the Please Wait sign flashing. The answer finally registered and his eyes focused again on Bosch.

“I think you should go, Harry.” He stood up. “It's very plain to see you've been under a lot of pressure with this case and I think—”

“You're the one coming apart, Bremmer. You've made mistakes. A lot of them.”

Bremmer suddenly dived into Bosch, rolling so that his left shoulder slammed into Bosch's chest, pinning him to the couch. Bosch felt air burst from his lungs and sat helplessly as Bremmer worked his hands under Harry's sport coat and got to the gun. Bremmer then pulled away, switching off the safety and pointing the weapon at Bosch's face.

After nearly a minute of silence during which both men simply stared at each other, Bremmer said, “I admit only one thing: You have me intrigued, Harry. But before we go any further with this discussion, there is something I have to do.”

A sense of relief and anticipation flooded Bosch's body. He tried not to show it. Instead he tried to put a look of terror on his face. He stared wide-eyed at the gun. Bremmer bent over him and ran his heavy hand down Bosch's chest and into his crotch, then around his sides. He found no wire.

“Sorry to get so personal,” he said. “But you don't trust me and I don't trust you, right?”

Bremmer straightened and stepped back and sat down.

“Now, I don't need to remind you, but I will. I have the advantage here. So answer my questions. What mistakes? What mistakes have I made? Tell me what I did wrong, Harry, or I'll kneecap you with the first bullet.”

Bosch tantalized him with silence for a few moments as he thought about how to proceed.

“Well,” he finally began. “Let's go back to the basics first. Four years ago you were all over the Dollmaker case. As a reporter. From the start. It was your stories about the early cases that made the department form the task force. As a reporter you had access to the suspect intelligence, you probably had the autopsy reports. You also had sources like me and probably half the dicks on the task force and in the coroner's office. What I am saying is you knew what the Dollmaker did. Right down to the cross on the toenail, you knew. Later, after the Dollmaker was dead, you used it in your book.”

“Yeah, I knew. It means nothing, Bosch. A lot of people knew.”

“Oh, it's Bosch now. No more Harry? Have I suddenly become contemptible in your eyes? Or does the gun give you that sense that we are no longer equals?”

“Fuck you, Bosch. You're stupid. You've got nothing. What else you got? You know, this is great. It will definitely be worth a chapter in the book I do on the Follower.”

“What else've I got? I've got the concrete blonde. And I've got the concrete. Did you know you dropped your cigarettes when you were pouring the concrete? Remember that? You were driving home, wanted a smoke and you reached into your pocket and there was nothing there.

“See, just like Becky Kaminski, they were in there waiting for us. Marlboro soft pack. That's your brand, Bremmer. That's mistake number one.”

“A lot of people smoke them. Good luck taking this to the DA.”

“A lot of people are left-handed, too, like you and the Follower. And me. But there's more. You want to hear it?”

Bremmer looked away from him, toward the window, and said nothing. Maybe it was a trick, Bosch thought, that he wanted Bosch to go for the gun.

“Hey, Bremmer!” he almost yelled. “There's more.”

Bremmer's face snapped back into a stare at Bosch.

“Today after the verdict you said I should be happy because the verdict would leave the city only two bucks light. But when we had a drink the other night remember, you gave me the big rundown on how Chandler would be able to charge the city a hundred grand or so if she won even a dollar judgment from the jury. Remember? So it makes me think that when you told me this morning the verdict was only going to cost two dollars, you knew it was only going to cost two dollars because you knew Chandler was dead and couldn't collect. You knew that because you killed her. Mistake number two.”

Bremmer shook his head as if he were dealing with a child. His aim with the gun dropped to Bosch's midsection.

“Look, man, I was trying to make you feel good when I said that today, okay? I didn't know if she was alive or dead. No jury is going to make that leap of faith.”

Bosch smiled brilliantly at him.

“So now at least you have me past the DA's office and to a jury. I guess my story is improving, isn't it?”

Bremmer coldly smiled back, raised the gun.

“Is that it, Bosch? Is that all you have?”

“I saved the best stuff for last.”

He lit a cigarette, never taking his eyes off Bremmer.

“You remember before you killed Chandler, how you tortured her? You must remember that. You bit her. And burned her. Well, everyone was standing around in that house today wondering why the Follower was changing, doing all this new stuff—changing the mold. Locke, the shrink, he was the most puzzled of all. You really fucked with his mind, man. I kinda like that about you, Bremmer. But, you see, he didn't know what I knew.”

He let that sit out there for a while. He knew Bremmer would bite.

“And what did you know, Sherlock?”

Bosch smiled. He was in complete control now.

“I knew why you did that to her. It was simple. You wanted your note back, didn't you? But she wouldn't tell you where it was. See, she knew she was dead whether, she gave it to you or not, so she took it—everything you did to her, she took—and she didn't tell you. That woman had a lot of guts and in the end she beat you, Bremmer. She's the one who got you. Not me.”

“What note?” Bremmer said weakly after a long moment.

“The one you fucked up with. You missed it. It's a big house to search, especially when you've got a dead woman lying in the bed. That'd be hard to explain if somebody happened to drop by. But don't worry, I found it, I've got it. Too bad you don't read Hawthorne. It was sitting there in his book. Too bad. But like I said, she beat you. Maybe there is justice sometimes.”

Bremmer had no snappy comeback. Bosch looked at him and thought that he was doing well. He was almost there.

“She kept the envelope, too, in case you were wondering. I found that, too. And so I started wondering, why would he torture her for this note when it was the same one he dropped off for me? It was just a photocopy. Then I figured it out. You didn't want the note. You wanted the envelope.”

Bremmer looked down at his hands.

“How am I doing? Am I losing you?”

“I have no idea,” Bremmer said, looking back up. “You're fucking delirious as far as I'm concerned.”

“Well, I only have to worry about making sense to the DA, don't I? And what I'm going to explain to him is that the poem on the note was in response to the story you wrote that appeared in the paper on Monday, the day the trial started. But the postmark on the envelope was the Saturday before. See, there's the puzzle. How would the Follower know to write a poem making reference to the newspaper article two days before it was in the newspaper? The answer is, of course, that he, the Follower, had prior knowledge of the article. He wrote that article. That also explains how you knew about the note in the next day's story. You were your own source, Bremmer. And that is mistake number three. Three strikes and you're out.”

The silence that followed was so complete that Bosch could hear the low hiss coming from Bremmer's bottle of beer.

“You're forgetting something, Bosch,” Bremmer finally said. “I'm holding the gun. Now, who else have you told this crazy story to?”

“Just to finish the housekeeping,” Bosch said, “the new poem you dropped off for me this past weekend was just a front. You wanted the shrink and everybody else to make it look like you killed Chandler as a favor to me or some psycho bullshit, right?”

Bremmer said nothing.

“That way nobody would see the true reason you went after her. To get the note and the envelope back… . Shit, you being a reporter she was familiar with, she probably invited you in when you knocked on her door. Kind of like you inviting me in here. Familiarity breeds danger, Bremmer.”

Bremmer said nothing.

“Answer a question for me, Bremmer. I'm curious why you dropped one note off and mailed the other. I know, being a reporter, you could blend in at the station, drop it on the desk and nobody would remember. But why mail it to her? Obviously, it was a mistake—that's why you went back and killed her. But why'd you make it?”

The reporter looked at Bosch for a long moment. Then he glanced down at the gun as if to reassure himself that he was in control and would get out of this. The gun was powerful bait. Bosch knew he had him.