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“I’m right by the four-oh-five.”
“So jump on and head south. I’ll call you back when we’re heading that way. If we pull this off, you take lead. I think he made me.”
“How do you know?”
“He turned around in the alley so he didn’t have to drive by my location.”
“Shit.”
“One-car follow, what can I tell you.”
“I know, my fault.”
“No, not your fault. It just is what it is.”
“What if he’s just going home?”
“That would be perfect but I don’t think it’s happening. The college streets are east of here. He’s taking a roundabout way if that’s where he’s going.”
Up ahead, Rawls turned south onto Lincoln as predicted. Bosch reached the intersection, and as he made the same turn, he didn’t see the BMW ahead. As he passed through the next intersection, he slowed and quickly looked one way and then the other. The BMW was nowhere to be seen.
“Shit,” he said. “I think I already lost him.”
“What?” Ballard said. “Where?”
“He turned onto Lincoln, and when I followed, he was gone. I’m checking side streets but don’t see his car anywhere.”
“We need to get that swab.”
“I know that. So now it’s my fault.”
“I’m not blaming you, Harry. I’m just pissed. Where do you think he was going?”
“The freeway, and from there, who knows? Maybe he’s going to the airport, or he could be driving south to Mexico or north to Canada.”
Bosch had now passed through three intersections and had not seen the blue BMW.
“Where should I go now?” Ballard asked.
“Keep going to the four-oh-five and head south. I’ll do the—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. His phone flew out of his hand as he felt a sharp impact on the rear corner of the car. Suddenly he was in a counterclockwise spin. The Cherokee slid sideways through an intersection and then sheared off a stop sign before slamming into a parked car and coming to an abrupt stop.
Bosch was stunned for a moment and then a sharp pain in his right knee cut through the fog and brought clarity. He grabbed his knee and looked around, trying to get his bearings and determine what had just happened. Through the windshield he saw the blue BMW he had been looking for. It was sitting in the middle of Lincoln, its front passenger-side headlight shattered from the impact.
Bosch quickly formed an understanding of what had happened. Rawls had hit his car from behind with a PIT maneuver—a pursuit tactic designed to spin a car out by clipping the rear corner, changing the direction of its momentum, and swinging it into an out-of-control fishtail.
Only slightly damaged, the BMW didn’t take off. It sat motionless in the middle of the street until the driver’s doorwas suddenly flung open and Rawls got out. He came around the front of the car, and at first Bosch thought he was going to check the damage to his car. But he didn’t even glance at the BMW’s front end. Instead, he calmly started walking toward Bosch’s car.
Bosch could see that he was carrying a gun down at his side.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Bosch said.
He leaned across the center console and groaned as he felt pain in his ribs. He opened the glove box, reached in, and wrapped his hand around his own gun. Leaning back into his seat, he held the gun on his thigh. He had no idea what kind of confrontation was about to occur.
Rawls continued to advance, and as he got closer, he suddenly raised his gun up into a ready-fire position.
“No, no, no, no,” Bosch said.
