“Tonight? Nothing much.”
“You got your kid tonight?”
“No, Thursdays. Why?”
“I’m thinking about going out to the Springs.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, talk to the ex-wife.”
He saw Edgar check his watch. He knew that even if they left that moment, they still wouldn’t get back until late.
“It’s all right. I can go by myself. Just give me the address.”
“Nah, I’m going with you.”
“You sure? You don’t have to. I just don’t like waitin’ around for something to happen, you know?”
“Yeah, Harry, I know.”
Edgar stood up and took his jacket off the back of his chair.
“Then I’ll go tell Bullets,” Bosch said.
27
THEY were more than halfway across the desert to Palm Springs before either one of them spoke.
“Harry,” Edgar said, “you’re not talking.”
“I know,” Bosch said.
The one thing they had always had as partners was the ability to share long silences. Whenever Edgar felt the need to break the silence, Bosch knew there was something on his mind he wanted to talk about.
“What is it, J. Edgar?”
“Nothing.”
“The case?”
“No, man, nothing. I’m cool.”
“All right, then.”
They were passing a windmill farm. The air was dead. None of the blades were turning.
“Did your parents stay together?” Bosch asked.
“Yeah, all the way,” Edgar said, then he laughed. “I think they wished sometimes they didn’t but, yeah, they stuck it out. That’s how it goes, I guess. The strong survive.”
Bosch nodded. They were both divorced but rarely talked about their failed marriages.
“Harry, I heard about you and the boot. It’s getting around.”
Bosch nodded. This is what Edgar had wanted to bring up. Rookies in the department were often called “boots.” The origin of the term was obscure. One school of thought was that it referred to boot camp, another that it was a sarcastic reference to rookies being the new boots of the fascist empire.
“All I’m saying, man, is be careful with that. You got rank on her, okay?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll figure something out.”
“From what I hear and have seen, she’s worth the risk. But you still gotta be careful.”
Bosch didn’t say anything. After a few minutes they passed a road sign that said Palm Springs was coming up in nine miles. It was nearing dusk. Bosch was hoping to knock on the door where Christine Waters lived before it got dark.
“Harry, you going to take the lead on this, when we get there?”
“Yeah, I’ll take it. You can be the indignant one.”
“That will be easy.”
Once they crossed the city boundary into Palm Springs they picked up a map at a gas station and made their way through the town until they found Frank Sinatra Boulevard and took it up toward the mountains. Bosch pulled the car up to the gate house of a place called Mountaingate Estates. Their map showed the street Christine Waters lived on was within Mountaingate.
A uniformed rent-a-cop stepped out of the gate house, eying the slickback they were in and smiling.
“You guys are a little ways off the beat,” he said.
Bosch nodded and tried to give a pleasant smile. But it only made him look like he had something sour in his mouth.
“Something like that,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“We’re going to talk to Christine Waters, three-twelve Deep Waters Drive.”
“Mrs. Waters know you’re coming?”
“Not unless she’s a psychic or you tell her.”
“That’s my job. Hold on a second.”
He returned to the gate house and Bosch saw him pick up a phone.
“Looks like Christine Delacroix seriously traded up,” Edgar said.
He was looking through the windshield at some of the homes that were visible from their position. They were all huge with manicured lawns big enough to play touch football on.
The guard came out, put both hands on the window sill of the car and leaned down to look in at Bosch.
“She wants to know what it’s about.”
“Tell her we’ll discuss it with her at her house. Privately. Tell her we have a court order.”
The guard shrugged his shoulders in a have-it-your-way gesture and went back inside. Bosch watched him speaking on the phone for a few more moments. After he hung up, the gate started to open slowly. The guard stood in the open doorway and waved them in. But not without the last word.
“You know that tough-guy stuff probably works real well for you in L.A. Out here in the desert it’s just—”
Bosch didn’t hear the rest. He drove through the gate while putting the window up.
They found Deep Waters Drive at the far extreme of the development. The homes here looked to be a couple million dollars more opulent than those built near the entrance to Mountaingate.
“Who would name a street in the desert Deep Waters Drive?” Edgar mused.
“Maybe somebody named Waters.”
It dawned on Edgar then.
“Damn. You think? Then she really has traded up.”
The address Edgar came up with for Christine Waters corresponded with a mansion of contemporary Spanish design that sat at the end of a cul-de-sac at the terminus of Mountaingate Estates. It was most definitely the development’s premier lot. The house was positioned on a promontory that afforded it a view of all the other homes in the development as well as a sweeping view of the golf course that surrounded it.
The property had its own gated drive but the gate was open. Bosch wondered if it always stood open or had been opened for them.
“This is going to be interesting,” Edgar said as they pulled into a parking circle made of interlocking paving stones.
“Just remember,” Bosch said, “people can change their addresses but they can’t change who they are.”
“Right. Homicide one-oh-one.”
They got out and walked under the portico that led to the double-wide front door. It was opened before they got to it by a woman in a black-and-white maid’s uniform. In a thick Spanish accent the woman told them that Mrs. Waters was waiting in the living room.
The living room was the size and had the feel of a small cathedral, with a twenty-five-foot ceiling with exposed roof beams. High on the wall facing the east were three large stained-glass windows, a triptych depicting a sunrise, a garden and a moonrise. The opposite wall had six side-by-side sliding doors with a view of a golf course putting green. The room had two distinct groupings of furniture, as if to accommodate two separate gatherings at the same time.
Sitting in the middle of a cream-colored couch in the first grouping was a woman with blonde hair and a tight face. Her pale blue eyes followed the men as they entered and took in the size of the room.
“Mrs. Waters?” Bosch said. “I am Detective Bosch and this is Detective Edgar. We’re from the Los Angeles Police Department.”
He held out his hand and she took it but didn’t shake it. She just held it for a moment and then moved on to Edgar’s outstretched hand. Bosch knew from the birth certificate that she was fifty-six years old. But she looked close to a decade younger, her smooth tan face a testament to the wonders of modern medical science.
“Please have a seat,” she said. “I can’t tell you how embarrassed I am to have that car sitting in front of my house. I guess discretion is not the better part of valor when it comes to the LAPD.”
Bosch smiled.
“Well, Mrs. Waters, we’re kind of embarrassed about it, too, but that’s what the bosses tell us to drive. So that’s what we drive.”
“What is this about? The guard at the gate said you have a court order. May I see it?”
Bosch sat down on a couch directly opposite her and
across a black coffee table with gold designs inlaid on it.
“Uh, he must have misunderstood me,” he said. “I told him we could get a court order, if you refused to see us.”
“I’m sure he did,” she replied, the tone of her voice letting them know she didn’t believe Bosch at all. “What do you want to see me about?”
“We need to ask you about your husband.”
“My husband has been dead for five years. Besides that, he rarely went to Los Angeles. What could he possibly—”
“Your first husband, Mrs. Waters. Samuel Delacroix. We need to talk to you about your children as well.”
Bosch saw a wariness immediately enter her eyes.
“I . . . I haven’t seen or spoken to them in years. Almost thirty years.”
“You mean since you went out for medicine for the boy and forgot to come back home?” Edgar asked.
The woman looked at him as though he had slapped her. Bosch had hoped Edgar was going to use a little more finesse when he acted indignant with her.
“Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Waters,” Bosch said. “I want to ask questions first and then we can get to yours.”
“I don’t understand this. How did you find me? What are you doing? Why are you here?”
Her voice rose with emotion from question to question. A life she had put aside thirty years before was suddenly intruding into the carefully ordered life she now had.
“We are homicide investigators, ma’am. We are working on a case that may involve your husband. We—”
“He’s not my husband. I divorced him twenty-five years ago, at least. This is crazy, you coming here to ask about a man I don’t even know anymore, that I didn’t even know was still alive. I think you should leave. I want you to leave.”
She stood up and extended her hand in the direction they had come in.
Bosch glanced at Edgar and then back at the woman. Her anger had turned the tan on her sculptured face uneven. There were blotches beginning to form, the tell of plastic surgery.
“Mrs. Waters, sit down,” Bosch said sternly. “Please try to relax.”
“Relax? Do you know who I am? My husband built this place. The houses, the golf course, everything. You can’t just come in here like this. I could pick up the phone and have the chief of police on the line in two—”
“Your son is dead, lady,” Edgar snapped. “The one you left behind thirty years ago. So sit down and let us ask you our questions.”
She dropped back onto the couch as if her feet had been kicked out from beneath her. Her mouth opened and then closed. Her eyes were no longer on them, they were on some distant memory.
“Arthur . . .”
“That’s right,” Edgar said. “Arthur. Glad you at least remember it.”
They watched her in silence for a few moments. All the years and all the distance wasn’t enough. She was hurt by the news. Hurt bad. Bosch had seen it before. The past had a way of coming back up out of the ground. Always right below your feet.
Bosch took his notebook out of his pocket and opened it to a blank page. He wrote “Cool it” on it and handed the notebook to Edgar.
“Jerry, why don’t you take some notes? I think Mrs. Waters wants to cooperate with us.”
His speaking drew Christine Waters out of her blue reverie. She looked at Bosch.
“What happened? Was it Sam?”
“We don’t know. That’s why we’re here. Arthur has been dead a long time. His remains were found just last week.”
She slowly brought one of her hands to her mouth in a fist. She lightly started bumping it against her lips.
“How long?”
“He had been buried for twenty years. It was a call from your daughter that helped us identify him.”
“Sheila.”
It was as if she had not spoken the name in so long she had to try it out to see if it still worked.
“Mrs. Waters, Arthur disappeared in nineteen eighty. Did you know about that?”
She shook her head.
“I was gone. I left almost ten years before that.”
“And you had no contact with your family at all?”
“I thought . . .”
She didn’t finish. Bosch waited.
“Mrs. Waters?”
“I couldn’t take them with me. I was young and couldn’t handle . . . the responsibility. I ran away. I admit that. I ran away. I thought that it would be best for them to not hear from me, to not even know about me.”
Bosch nodded in a way he hoped conveyed that he understood and agreed with her thinking at the time. It didn’t matter that he did not. It didn’t matter that his own mother had faced the same hardship of having a child too soon and under difficult circumstances but had clung to and protected him with a fierceness that inspired his life.
“You wrote them letters before you left? Your children, I mean.”
“How did you know that?”
“Sheila told us. What did you say in the letter to Arthur?”
“I just . . . I just told him I loved him and I’d always think about him, but I couldn’t be with him. I can’t really remember everything I said. Is it important?”
Bosch shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know. Your son had a letter with him. It might have been the one from you. It’s deteriorated. We probably won’t ever know. In the divorce petition you filed a few years after leaving home, you cited physical abuse as a cause of action. I need you to tell us about that. What was the physical abuse?”
She shook her head again, this time in a dismissive way, as if the question was annoying or stupid.
“What do you think? Sam liked to bat me around. He’d get drunk and it was like walking on eggshells. Anything could set him off, the baby crying, Sheila talking too loud. And I was always the target.”
“He would hit you?”
“Yes, he would hit me. He’d become a monster. It was one of the reasons I had to leave.”
“But you left the kids with the monster,” Edgar said.
This time she didn’t react as if struck. She fixed her pale eyes on Edgar with a deathly look that made Edgar turn his indignant eyes away. She spoke very calmly to him.
“Who are you to judge anyone? I had to survive and I could not take them with me. If I had tried none of us would have survived.”
“I’m sure they understood that,” Edgar said.
The woman stood up again.
“I don’t think I am going to talk to you anymore. I’m sure you can find your way out.”
She headed toward the arched doorway at the far end of the room.
“Mrs. Waters,” Bosch said. “If you don’t talk to us now, we will go get that court order.”
“Fine,” she said without looking back. “Do it. I’ll have one of my attorneys handle it.”
“And it will become public record at the courthouse in town.”
It was a gamble but Bosch thought it might stop her. He guessed that her life in Palm Springs was built squarely atop her secrets. And that she wouldn’t want anybody going down into the basement. The social gossips might, like Edgar, have a hard time viewing her actions and motives the way she did. Deep inside, she had a hard time herself, even after so many years.
She stopped under the archway, composed herself and came back to the couch. Looking at Bosch, she said, “I will only talk to you. I want him to leave.”
Bosch shook his head.
“He’s my partner. It’s our case. He stays, Mrs. Waters.”
“I will still answer questions from you only.”
“Fine. Please sit down.”
She did so, this time sitting on the side of the couch farthest from Edgar and closest to Bosch.
“I know you want to help us find your son’s killer. We’ll try to be as fast as we can here.”
She nodded once.
“Just tell us about your ex-husband.”
“The whole sordid story?” she asked rhetorically. “I�
�ll give you the short version. I met him in an acting class. I was eighteen. He was seven years older, had already done some film work and to top it off was very, very handsome. You could say I quickly fell under his spell. And I was pregnant before I was nineteen.”
Bosch checked Edgar to see if he was writing any of this down. Edgar caught the look and started writing.
“We got married and Sheila was born. I didn’t pursue a career. I have to admit I wasn’t that dedicated. Acting just seemed like something to do at the time. I had the looks but soon I found out every girl in Hollywood had the looks. I was happy to stay at home.”
“How did your husband do at it?”
“At first, very well. He got a recurring role on First Infantry. Did you ever watch it?”
Bosch nodded. It was a World War II television drama that ran in the mid to late sixties, until public sentiment over the Vietnam War and war in general led to declining ratings and it was cancelled. The show followed an army platoon as it moved behind German lines each week. Bosch had liked the show as a kid and always tried to watch it, whether he was in a foster home or the youth hall.
“Sam was one of the Germans. His blond hair and Aryan looks. He was on it the last two years. Right up until I got pregnant with Arthur.”
She let some silence punctuate that.
“Then the show got cancelled because of that stupid war in Vietnam. It got cancelled and Sam had trouble finding work. He was typecast as this German. He really started drinking then. And hitting me. He’d spend his days going to casting calls and getting nothing. He’d then spend his nights drinking and being angry at me.”
“Why you?”
“Because I was the one who had gotten pregnant. First with Sheila and then with Arthur. Neither was planned and it all added up to too much pressure on him. He took it out on whoever was close.”
“He assaulted you.”
“Assaulted? It sounds so clinical. But yes, he assaulted me. Many times.”
“Did you ever see him strike the children?”
It was the key question they had come to ask. Everything else was window dressing.
“Not specifically,” she said. “When I was carrying Arthur he hit me once. In the stomach. It broke my water. I went into labor about six weeks before my due date. Arthur didn’t even weigh five pounds when he was born.”
Michael Connelly Page 17
