Banks had been employed for eighteen years as a salesman at the John Deere dealership in Modesto. He was married and the father of three kids. He had a degree from Modesto Junior College.

On this deeper dig, Chu had also found that in addition to his DUI conviction, Banks also had two other DUI arrests that did not result in conviction. Bosch noted that the one conviction came from an arrest in San Joaquin County, where Manteca was located. But two DUI stops in neighboring Stanislaus County never resulted in charges being filed. Bosch wondered if being foxhole buddies with the Stanislaus County sheriff might have had something to do with that.

He moved on to Francis John Dowler and read a bio not too different from his pal Banks’s curriculum vitae. Born, raised, and still living in Manteca, he attended San Joaquin Valley College in Stockton but didn’t stick around for the two-year degree.

Bosch heard a low snickering sound and looked up to see Pino, their usual waiter, smiling.

“What?” Bosch asked.

“I read your paper, I am sorry.”

Bosch looked down at the data sheet on Dowler and then back at Pino. He was Mexican-born but posed as Italian since he worked in an Italian restaurant.

“That’s okay, Pino. But what’s so funny?”

The waiter pointed at the top line of the data sheet.

“It say there he was born in Manteca. That is funny.”

“Why?”

“I thought you speak Spanish, Mr. Bosch.”

“Just a little. What is Manteca?”

“It is the lard. The fat.”

“Really?”

“Sí.”

Bosch shrugged.

“I guess they must’ve thought it sounded nice when they named the place,” he said. “They probably didn’t know.”

“Where is this town called Lard?” Pino asked.

“North of here. About five hours.”

“If you go, take a picture for me. ‘Welcome to Lard.’”

He laughed and moved away to check on customers at other tables. Bosch checked his watch. Hannah was now a half hour late. He thought about calling to check on her. He pulled out his phone and noticed that his daughter had answered his text with a simple ordered in pizza. That was pizza for the second night in a row while he was out for a supposedly romantic dinner with salad and pasta and wine. A wave of guilt hit him again. He seemed incapable of being the father he knew he should be. The guilt turned to self-directed anger and it gave him all the resolve he needed for what he planned to ask Hannah—if she ever showed up.

He decided he would give it another ten minutes before he pestered her with a call, then went back to his work.

Dowler was forty-eight years old and had logged exactly half of his life in the employ of Cosgrove Ag. His job description was listed on the sheet as Contract Transport and Bosch wondered if that meant he was still a truck driver.