On the second go-by he saw the clinic in the inside corner of the small shopping plaza. A liquor store and a pizza shop were open as well, and the parking lot was half-filled with cars. Bosch pulled down the sun visor to give him a bit of a visual blind and pulled in. He cruised through the lot, keeping an eye on the clinic. There was a pass-through to either a rear alley or another parking lot. The clinic’s entrance was in this passage, which gave it visual protection. At a quick glance, he saw people milling about outside the door to the clinic but he could not identify anyone.
He turned out of the lot and went down a block before finding an alley that would take him to the rear of the shopping plaza. He cruised by and saw a line of head-in parking spaces behind the plaza’s stores. Parked first in line by the pass-through was a Mercedes-Benz coupe with a vanity plate that said DR ALI. As he went by, he got a better look at the people congregating by the clinic door. Three men, none of whom Bosch recognized, other than that they had the haggard and desperate look of addicts. He almost smiled when he saw one of them was wearing a knee brace similar to the one he had employed.
At Sherman Way he turned right and entered the front lot of the plaza again. He went down the first lane and took a parking place that would allow him to see into the pass-through. The clients were mostly just in silhouette, but he was confident that he would be able to identify a female figure if a woman left the clinic.
Bosch pulled his phone, Googled the name of the clinic, and got a phone number. He called and asked the woman who answered how long the clinic would be open.
“We are closing soon,” she said. “The doctor must leave at eight.”
Bosch thanked her and disconnected. He checked his wrist and realized he had forgotten to put his watch back on after coming in from undercover. He looked at the dash and saw he had twenty minutes until closing time. He settled in and kept his eyes on the clinic’s entrance.
Ten minutes into the surveillance, Bosch’s attention was drawn to his right, to the pizza shop. It appeared to be largely a takeout-and-delivery operation, but two tables were set up on the sidewalk out front. Bosch noticed a man wearing an apron leaning through the front door, gesturing and talking to a man sitting by himself at one of the tables. The seated man was partially hidden from Bosch’s view by a row of potted plants. He would not have even noticed him if the man with the apron had not come to the door.
It looked to Bosch like the aproned man was telling the other man to leave. He was pointing toward the parking lot. Bosch lowered his windows so he might be able to hear the confrontation, but it ended abruptly with the man behind the plants standing up and cursing the pizza man. He then walked out from the seating area and headed down the line of shops toward Sherman Way.
Bosch immediately recognized him. It was Brody.
All at once Bosch felt a charge and a sense of dread. He thought he understood things. Brody knew about Chemical Ali but had no money upon his release from jail and nothing to offer. Brody had followed Elizabeth Clayton from the jail and was watching and waiting for her to emerge with pills in her possession so he could take them and then exact his misguided revenge.
He knew the situation could also be that Clayton and Brody had come to the clinic together and he was simply waiting for her to come out, but from what Bosch knew of her leave-me-alone personality, he didn’t see her as a team player.
Bosch got out of the Jeep, quickly went to the back, and raised the tailgate. Because he was not assigned a vehicle at SFPD, he carried his work kit in the back of his own car. This was a duffel bag filled with personal equipment he might need in any circumstance that might come up during an investigation. He looked back over his shoulder and caught sight of Brody making it to the end of the plaza and turning the corner heading west. Bosch knew that would take him to the back alley and possibly down to the pass-through, where Clayton would emerge if she was in the clinic.
Bosch quickly unzipped the go bag and rummaged through it. He found a Dodgers baseball hat and, putting it on, pulled the brim down over his forehead. Then he found the plastic zip ties and took two. He coiled them so they would fit in the back pocket of his jeans. He zipped the bag closed and dropped the tailgate. He was ready.
After checking the corner of the plaza for any sign of Clayton, Bosch headed to the end of the plaza where he had last seen Brody. He quickly covered the distance and turned onto the sidewalk fronting Sherman Way. There was no sign of Brody, and that confirmed for Bosch that he had slipped down the alley behind the plaza. He moved quickly to the alley entrance and made the turn as well.
Again, there was no sign of the man. The alley was much darker than when Bosch had driven through earlier. The dimming light of dusk was reduced to shadow because of the structures on either side of the alley. Bosch proceeded cautiously, trying to hold to the shadows himself as he moved along.
“Where’s your cane now, shitbird?”
Bosch turned at the sound of the voice in time to see Brody stepping out from between two Dumpsters and swinging a broomstick. Bosch was able to cock his left arm like a chicken wing, raise it, and take the main force of the blow across the forearm.
The impact sent a jolt of pain shooting up Bosch’s arm. But it only served to sharpen his response. Rather than step back, Bosch stepped into Brody, whose momentum was carrying him forward. He brought his knee up hard into Brody’s crotch and heard the air blast out of him. The broomstick clattered to the asphalt and Brody doubled over. Bosch grabbed the back of his shirt, pulled it up over his head and shoulders, and swung him around 180 degrees before releasing him headfirst into the side of one of the Dumpsters. Brody hit and went down with a groan.
Bosch moved in. Because Brody’s arms and wrists were tangled in the shirt, Bosch went to his ankles.
“Nice move,” Bosch said. “Warning me like that. Smart.”
Bosch pulled the zip ties out of his back pocket and secured Brody’s ankles tightly, using both plastic strips to double down on the bindings. Of course, Brody could easily work his hands free of the shirt, Bosch knew, but then he would be faced with the dilemma of how to free his feet. He would have to pogo out of the alley and find someone willing to cut him loose. It would slow him down long enough for Bosch to do what he needed to do.
The quickest way to the clinic was to continue down the alley. As Bosch went along, he noticed two figures moving away in the darkness from the pass-through. It was too dark for him to determine their gender, so he picked up his pace to a trot and soon he got close enough to see they were men.
Bosch moved by the Mercedes, cut into the pass-through, and went to the clinic door. It was locked. He rapped hard on the glass with his fist. He noticed an intercom box mounted on the door’s frame and pushed the button three times.
A few moments later, a woman’s voice sounded from the box. Bosch recognized it from the call he had made to the clinic earlier.
“We’re closed. I’m sorry.”
Bosch pushed the button to respond.
“Police. Open the door.”
There was no response. Then a man’s voice with a Middle Eastern accent came from the box.
“Do you have a warrant?”
“I just want to talk, Doctor. Open up.”
“Not without a warrant. You need a warrant.”
“Okay, Doc. Then what I’m going to do is wait for you at your Mercedes in the alley. I’ve got all night.”
Bosch waited. Ten seconds went by while the doctor apparently considered his options. The door was then opened by a woman wearing nursing scrubs. Behind her stood a man with white hair who Bosch assumed was Dr. Rohat.