PROLOGUE
Bosch looked through the small square of glass and saw that the man was alone in the tank. He took his gun out of its holster and handed it to the watch sergeant. Standard procedure. The steel door was unlocked and slid open. Immediately the smell of sweat and vomit stung Bosch's nostrils.
"How long's he been in here?"
"About three hours," said the sergeant. "He blew a one-eight, so I don't know what you're going to get."
Bosch stepped into the holding tank and kept his eyes on the prone form on the floor.
"All right, you can close it."
"Let me know."
The door slid closed with a jarring bang and jolt. The man on the floor groaned and moved only slightly. Bosch walked over and sat down on the bench nearest to him. He took the tape recorder out of his jacket pocket and put it down on the bench. Glancing up at the glass window he saw the sergeant's face move away. He used the toe of his shoe to probe the man's side. The man groaned again.
"Wake up, you piece of shit."
The man on the floor of the tank slowly rolled his head and then lifted it. Paint flecked his hair and vomit had caked on the front of his shirt and neck. He opened his eyes and immediately closed them against the harsh overhead lighting of the holding tank. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper.
"You again."
Bosch nodded.
"Yeah. Me."
"Our little dance."
A smile cut across the three-day-old whiskers on the drunk's face. Bosch saw that he was missing a tooth he hadn't been missing last time. He reached down and put his hand on the recorder but did not turn it on yet.
"Get up. It's time to talk."
"Forget it, man. I don't want-- "
"You're running out of time. Talk to me."
"Leave me the fuck alone."
Bosch looked up at the window. It was clear. He looked back down at the man on the floor.
"Your salvation is in the truth. Now more than ever. I can't help you without the truth."
"What're you, a priest now? You here to take my confession?"
"You here to give it?"
The man on the floor said nothing. After a while Bosch thought he might have fallen back asleep. He pushed the toe of his shoe into the man's side again, into the kidney. The man erupted in movement, flailing his arms and legs.
"Fuck you!" he yelled. "I don't want you. I want a lawyer."
Bosch was silent a moment. He picked up the recorder and slid it back into his pocket. He then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together. He looked at the drunk and slowly shook his head.
"Then I guess I can't help you," he said.
He stood up and knocked on the window for the watch sergeant. He left the man lying on the floor.
Copyright © 2001 by Hieronymus, Inc.
)
Terrence McCaleb, the retired FBI agent who starred in the bestseller Blood Work, is asked by the LAPD to help them investigate a series of murders that have them baffled. They are the kind of ritualized killings that McCaleb specialized in solving with the FBI, and he is reluctantly drawn from his peaceful new life back into the horror and excitement of tracking down a terrifying homicidal maniac.
