The Closers by Michael Connelly Page B

through the book until he found the eighth grade photos. He quickly found Becky Verloren’s picture. She wore pigtails and braces. She was smiling but looked like she was just beginning that period of prepubescent awkwardness. He doubted she had been happy with her appearance in the book. He checked the group photos showing the class’s different clubs and organizations and was able to track her extracurricular activities. She played soccer and was seen in the photos for the science and art clubs and the homeroom representatives in student government. In all the photos she was always in the back row or off to the side. Bosch wondered if that was where she had been placed by a photographer or where she had felt comfortable.
    Rider was taking her time with the 1988 edition. She was going through every page, at one point holding the book up to Bosch when she was going through the faculty section. She pointed to a photo of a young Gordon Stoddard, who had much longer hair back then and didn’t wear glasses. He was leaner and looked stronger as well.
    “Look at him,” she said. “Nobody should grow old.”
    “And everybody should get the chance.”
    Bosch moved on to the 1987 yearbook and found that the photos of Becky Verloren showed a young girl who appeared to be blossoming. Her smile was fuller, more confident. If the braces were still there they were no longer noticeable. In the group photos she had moved to front and center. In the student government photos she was not a class officer yet, but she had her arms folded in a take-charge pose. Her posture and her unflinching stare at the camera told Bosch she was going places. Only somebody had stopped her.
    Bosch flipped through a few more pages and then closed the book. He was waiting for the bell to ring so they could go interview Bailey Koster Sable.
    “Nothing?” Rider asked.
    “Of any value,” he said. “It’s good to look at her back then, though. In place. In her element.”
    “Yes. Look at this.”
    They were sitting across from each other. She turned the 1988 book around on the table so he could see it. She had finally gotten to the sophomore class photos. The top half of the page on the right showed a boy and four girls posing on a wall Bosch recognized as the entrance to the student parking lot. One of the girls was Becky Verloren. The caption above the photo said STUDENT LEADERS. Below the photo the students were identified and their positions listed. Becky Verloren was listed as student council representative. Bailey Koster was class president.
    Rider tried to spin the book back toward herself but Bosch held it for a moment, studying the photograph. He could tell by her pose and her style that Becky Verloren had left her teen awkwardness behind. He would not describe the student in the photograph as a girl. She was on her way to becoming an attractive and confident young woman. He let the book go and Rider took it back.
    “She was going to be a heartbreaker,” he said.
    “Maybe she already was. Maybe she picked the wrong one to break.”
    “Anything else in there?”
    “Take a look.”
    She flipped the open book around again. The two pages were spread with photos from the Art Club’s trip to France the summer before. There were photos of about twenty students, boys and girls, and several parents or teachers in front of Notre Dame, in the courtyard of the Louvre and on a tourist boat on the Seine. Rider pointed out Rebecca Verloren in one of the photos.
    “She went to France,” Bosch said. “What about it?”
    “She could have met someone over there. Could be an international link to this thing. We might have to go over there and check it out.”
    She was trying to hold back a smile.
    “Yeah,” Bosch said. “You put the req in on that. Send it on up to six.”
    “Boy, Harry, I guess your sense of humor stayed retired.”
    “Yeah, I guess so.”
    The school bell rang, ending the discussion as well as classes for the day. Bosch and Rider