At 6 P.M. Banks and the rest of the staff closed shop and left the dealership en masse. Bosch knew that Banks lived north of Modesto in Manteca, so he pulled away from the curb, drove past the dealership, and then turned around so he would be in position to follow him home.

Banks pulled out in a silver Toyota and started north as expected. But then he surprised Bosch by taking a left on Hatch Road and vectoring away from the 99. At first Bosch thought Banks was following a shortcut, but soon it became apparent that was not the case. He’d have been home already if he’d just jumped on the freeway.

Bosch followed him into a neighborhood that was a mixture of industrial and residential. On one side were lower-income and middle-class homes jammed together as tight as teeth, while on the other side, there was a steady procession of junkyards and auto-crushing operations.

Bosch had to fall back on Banks for fear he would be noticed. He lost sight of him when Hatch Road started bending along with the shape of the nearby Tuolumne River.

He sped up and came around a bend but the Toyota was gone. He kept going, increasing his speed, and realized too late that he had just driven by a VFW post. On a hunch he slowed down and turned around. He drove back to the VFW and pulled into the lot. He immediately saw the silver Toyota parked around behind the building, as if hidden. Bosch guessed that Banks was stopping for a drink on his way home and didn’t want anyone to know it.

It was dimly lit when Bosch walked into the bar. He stood still for a moment while his eyes adjusted so he could look for Banks. He didn’t have to.

“Well, look who it is.”

Bosch turned to his left and there was Banks, sitting by himself on a barstool, his sport coat off and his tie long gone. A young bartender leaned over as she put a fresh drink down in front of him. Bosch acted surprised.

“Hey, what are you—I just came in for a quick one before heading north.”

Banks signaled him over to the stool next to him.

“Join the club.”

Bosch came over, pulling out his wallet.

“I’m already in the club.”

He pulled out his VA card and tossed it on the bar. Before the bartender could check it, Banks snatched it off the scarred bar top and looked at it.

“I thought you said your name was Harry.”

“It is. People call me Harry.”

“Hi—er . . . how do you say this crazy name?”

“Hieronymus. It’s the name of a painter from a long time ago.”

“I don’t blame you for going with Harry.”

Banks handed the ID card to the bartender.

“I can vouch for this guy, Lori. He’s good people.”