The Concrete Blonde (hb-3) by Michael Connelly Page B

was surprised to find Edgar was at the homicide table and not out eating lunch.
    “Any luck on the ID?” Bosch asked.
    “No, man, the prints didn’t check. No matches at all. She didn’t have a record. We’re still trying other sources, adult entertainment licenses, stuff like that.”
    “Shit.”
    “Well, we got something else cooking. Remember that CSUN anthropology professor I was telling you about? Well, he’s been here all morning with a student, painting the plaster face and getting it ready. I got the press coming in at three to show it off. Rojas went out to buy a blonde wig we’ll stick on it. If we get good play on the tube we might crack loose an ID.”
    “Sounds like a plan.”
    “Yeah. How’s court? The shit hit the fan in the
Times
today. That guy Bremmer has some sources.”
    “Court’s fine. Let me ask you something. After you left the scene yesterday and went back to the station, where was Pounds?”
    “Pounds? He was-we got back at the same time. Why?”
    “When did he leave?”
    “A little while later. Right before you got here.”
    “Was he on the phone in his office?”
    “I think he made a few calls. I wasn’t really watching. What’s going on, you think he’s Bremmer’s source?”
    “One last question. Did he close the door when he was on the phone?”
    Bosch knew Pounds was paranoid. He always kept the door to his office open and the blinds on the glass partitions up so he could see and hear what was happening in the squad room. If he ever closed either or both, the troops outside knew something was up.
    “Well, now that you mention it, I think he did have the door closed a little while. What is it?”
    “Bremmer I’m not worried about. But somebody was talking to Money Chandler. In court this morning she knew I had been called out to the scene yesterday. That wasn’t in the
Times
. Somebody told her.”
    Edgar was silent a moment before replying.
    “Yeah, but why would Pounds talk to her?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Maybe Bremmer. He could have told her, even though it wasn’t in his story.”
    “The story says she couldn’t be reached for comment. It’s got to be somebody else. A leak. Probably the same person talked to Bremmer and Chandler. Somebody who wants to fuck me up.”
    Edgar didn’t say anything and Bosch let it go for now.
    “I better head back to court.”
    “Hey, how’d Lloyd do? I heard on KFWB he was the first wit.”
    “He did about as expected.”
    “Shit. Who’s next?”
    “I don’t know. She has Irving and Locke, the shrink, on subpoena. My guess is, it will be Irving. He’ll pick up where Lloyd left off.”
    “Well, good luck. By the way, if you’re looking for something to do. This press gig I’m holding will hit the TV news tonight. I’ll be here waiting by the phones. If you want to answer a few, I could use the help.”
    Bosch thought briefly about his plan for dinner with Sylvia. She’d understand.
    “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

    * * *

    The afternoon testimony was largely uneventful. Chandler’s strategy, it seemed to Bosch, was to build a two-part question into the jury’s eventual deliberation, giving her clients two shots at the prize. One would be the wrong-man theory, which held that Bosch had flat-out killed an innocent man. The second question would be the use of force. Even if the jury determined that Norman Church, family man, was the Dollmaker, serial killer, they would have to decide whether Bosch’s actions were appropriate.
    Chandler called her client, Deborah Church, to the witness stand right after lunch. She gave a tearful account of a wonderful life with a wonderful husband who fawned over everybody; his daughters, his wife, his mother and mother-in-law. No misogynistic aberrations here. No sign of childhood abuse. The widow held a box of Kleenex in her hand as she testified, going to a new tissue every other question.
    She wore the traditional black dress of a widow. Bosch remembered how appealing Sylvia