Bosch waited. She was talking in a way that hinted she would say more as long as he gave her the space. He looked out through the sliding door behind her at the golf course. There was a deep sand trap guarding a putting green. A man in a red shirt and plaid pants was in the trap, flailing with a club at an unseen ball. Sprays of sand were flying up out of the trap onto the green. But no ball.
In the distance three other golfers were getting out of two carts parked on the other side of the green. The lip of the sand trap shielded them from view of the man in the red shirt. As Bosch watched, the man checked up and down the fairway for witnesses, then reached down and grabbed his ball. He threw it up onto the green, giving it the nice arc of a perfectly hit shot. He then climbed out of the trap, holding his club with both hands still locked in their grip, a posture that suggested he had just hit the ball.
Finally, Christine Waters began to talk again and Bosch looked back at her.
“Arthur only weighed five pounds when he was born. He was small right up through that first year and very sickly. We never talked about it but I think we both knew that what Sam had done had hurt that boy. He just wasn’t right.”
“Aside from that incident when he struck you, you never saw him strike Arthur or Sheila?”
“He might have spanked Sheila. I don’t really remember. He never hit the children. I mean, he had me there to hit.”
Bosch nodded, the unspoken conclusion being that once she was gone, who knows who became the target? Bosch thought of the bones laid out on the autopsy table and all the injuries Dr. Golliher had catalogued.
“Is my hus—is Sam under arrest?”
Bosch looked at her.
“No. We’re in the fact-finding stage here. The indication from your son’s remains is that there is a history of chronic physical abuse. We’re just trying to figure things out.”
“And Sheila? Was she . . . ?”
“We haven’t specifically asked her. We will. Mrs. Waters, when you were struck by your husband, was it always with his hand?”
“Sometimes he would hit me with things. A shoe once, I remember. He held me on the floor and hit me with it. And once he threw his briefcase at me. It hit me in the side.”
She shook her head.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just that briefcase. He carried it with him to all his auditions. Like he was so important and had so much going on. And all he ever had in it were a few head shots and a flask.”
Bitterness burned in her voice, even after so many years.
“Did you ever go to a hospital or an emergency room? Is there any physical record of the abuse?”
She shook her head.
“He never hurt me enough that I had to go. Except when I had Arthur, and then I lied. I said I fell and my water broke. You see, Detective, it wasn’t something I wanted the world to know about.”
Bosch nodded.
“When you left, was that planned? Or did you just go?”
She didn’t answer for a long moment as she watched the memory first on her inside screen.
“I wrote the letters to my children long before I left. I carried them in my purse and waited for the right time. On the night I left, I put them under their pillows and left with my purse and only the clothes I was wearing. And my car that my father had given us when we got married. That was it. I’d had enough. I told him we needed medicine for Arthur. He had been drinking. He told me to go out and get it.”
“And you never went back.”
“Never. About a year later, before I came out to the Springs, I drove by the house at night. Saw the lights on. I didn’t stop.”
Bosch nodded. He couldn’t think of anything else to ask. While the woman’s memory of that early time in her life was good, what she was remembering wasn’t going to help make a case against her ex-husband for a murder committed ten years after she had last seen him. Maybe Bosch had known that all along—that she wouldn’t be a vital part of the case. Maybe he had just wanted to take the measure of a woman who had abandoned her children, leaving them with a man she believed was a monster.
“What does she look like?”
Bosch was momentarily taken aback by her question.
“My daughter.”
“Um, she’s blonde like you. A little taller, heavier. No children, not married.”
“When will Arthur be buried?”
“I don’t know. You would have to call the medical examiner’s office. Or you could probably check with Sheila to see if . . .”
He stopped. He couldn’t get involved in mending the thirty-year gaps in people’s lives.
“I think we’re finished here, Mrs. Waters. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Definitely,” Edgar said, the sarcasm in his tone making its mark.
“You came all this way to ask so few questions.”
“I think that’s because you have so few answers,” Edgar said.
They walked to the door and she followed a few paces behind. Outside, under the portico, Bosch looked back at the woman standing in the open doorway. They held each other’s eyes for a moment. He tried to think of something to say. But he had nothing for her. She closed the door.
28
THEY pulled into the station lot shortly before eleven. It had been a sixteen-hour day that had netted very little in terms of evidence that could carry a case toward prosecution. Still, Bosch was satisfied. They had the identification and that was the center of the wheel. All things would come from that.
Edgar said good night and went straight to his car without going inside the station. Bosch wanted to check with the watch sergeant to see if anything had come up with Johnny Stokes. He also wanted to check for messages and knew that if he hung around until eleven he might see Julia Brasher when she got off shift. He wanted to talk to her.
The station was quiet. The midnight shift cops were up in roll call. The incoming and outgoing watch sergeants would be up there as well. Bosch went down the hallway to the detective bureau. The lights were out, which was in violation of an order from the Office of the Chief of Police. The chief had mandated that the lights in Parker Center and every division station should never be off. His goal was to let the public know that the fight against crime never slept. The result was that the lights glowed brightly every night in empty police offices across the city.
Bosch flicked on the row of lights over the homicide table and went to his spot. There were a number of pink phone message slips and he looked through these, but all were from reporters or related to other cases he had pending. He tossed the reporters’ messages in the trash can and put the others in his top drawer to follow up on the next day.
There were two department dispatch envelopes waiting on the desk for him. The first contained Golliher’s report and Bosch put it aside for reading later. He picked up the second envelope and saw it was from SID. He realized he had forgotten to call Antoine Jesper about the skateboard.
He was about to open the envelope when he noticed it had been dropped on top of a folded piece of paper on his calendar blotter. He unfolded it and read the short message. He knew it was from Julia, though she had not signed it.
Where are you, tough guy?
He had forgotten that he had told her to come by the squad room before she started her shift. He smiled at the note but felt bad about forgetting. He also thought once more about Edgar’s admonishment to be careful with the relationship.
He refolded the page and put it in his drawer. He wondered how Julia would react to what he wanted to talk about. He was dead tired from the long hours but didn’t want to wait until the next day.
The dispatch envelope from SID contained a one-page evidence analysis report from Jesper. Bosch read the report quickly. Jesper had confirmed that the board was made by Boneyard Boards Inc., a Huntington Beach manufacturer. The model was called a “Boney Board.” The particular model at hand was made from February 1978 until June 1986, when design variations created a slight change in the board’s
nose.
Before Bosch could get excited by the implications of a match between the board and the time frame of the case, he read the last paragraph of the report, which put any match in doubt.
The trucks (wheel assemblies) are of a design first implemented by Boneyard in May 1984. The graphite wheels also indicate a later manufacture. Graphite wheels did not become commonplace in the industry until the mid-80s. However, because trucks and wheels are interchangeable and often are traded out or replaced by boarders, it is impossible to determine the exact date of manufacture of the skateboard in evidence. Best estimate pending additional evidence is manufacture between February 1978 and June 1986.
Bosch slid the report back into the dispatch envelope and dropped it on the desk. The report was inconclusive but to Bosch the factors Jesper had outlined leaned toward the skateboard not having been Arthur Delacroix’s. In his mind the report tilted toward clearing rather than implicating Nicholas Trent in the boy’s death. In the morning he would type up a report with his conclusions and give it to Lt. Billets to send up the chain to Deputy Chief Irving’s office.
As if to punctuate the end of this line of investigation, the sound of the back door to the station banging open echoed down the hallway. Several loud male voices followed, all heading out into the night. Roll call was over and fresh troops were taking the field, their voices full of us-versus-them bravado.
The police chief’s wishes notwithstanding, Bosch flicked off the light and headed back down the hallway to the watch office. There were two sergeants in the small office. Lenkov was going off duty, while Renshaw was just starting her shift. They both registered surprise at Bosch’s appearance so late at night but then didn’t ask him what he was doing in the station.
“So,” Bosch said, “anything on my guy, Johnny Stokes?”
“Nothing yet,” Lenkov said. “But we’re looking. We’re putting it out at all roll calls and we’ve got the pictures in the cars now. So . . .”
“You’ll let me know.”
“We’ll let you know.”
Renshaw nodded her agreement.
Bosch thought about asking if Julia Brasher had come in to end her shift yet but thought better of it. He thanked them and stepped back into the hallway. The conversation had felt odd, like they couldn’t wait for him to get out of there. He sensed it was because of the word getting around about him and Julia. Maybe they knew she was coming off of shift and wanted to avoid seeing them together. As supervisors they would then be witnesses to what was an infraction of department policy. As minor and rarely enforced as the rule was, things would be better all the way around if they didn’t see the infraction and then have to look the other way.
Bosch walked out the back door and into the parking lot. He had no idea whether Julia was in the station locker room, still out on patrol or had come and gone already. Mid-shifts were fluid. You didn’t come in until the watch sergeant sent your replacement out.
He found her car in the parking lot and knew he hadn’t missed her. He walked back toward the station to sit down on the Code 7 bench. But when he got to it, Julia was already sitting there. Her hair was slightly wet from the locker room shower. She wore faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved pullover with a high neck.
“I heard you were in the house,” she said. “I checked and saw the light out and thought maybe I’d missed you.”
“Just don’t tell the chief about the lights.”
She smiled and Bosch sat down next to her. He wanted to touch her but didn’t.
“Or us,” he said.
She nodded.
“Yeah. A lot of people know, don’t they?”
“Yeah. I wanted to talk to you about that. Can you get a drink?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s walk over to the Cat and Fiddle. I’m tired of driving today.”
Rather than walk through the station together and out the front door, they took the long way through the parking lot and around the station. They walked two blocks up to Sunset and then another two down to the pub. Along the way Bosch apologized for missing her in the squad room before her shift and explained he had driven to Palm Springs. She was very quiet as they walked, mostly just nodding her head at his explanations. They didn’t talk about the issue at hand until they reached the pub and slid into one of the booths by the fireplace.
They both ordered pints of Guinness and then Julia folded her arms on the table and fixed Bosch with a hard stare.
“Okay, Harry, I’ve got my drink coming. You can give it to me. But I have to warn you, if you are going to say you want to just be friends, well, I already have enough friends.”
Bosch couldn’t help but break into a broad smile. He loved her boldness, her directness. He started shaking his head.
“Nah, I don’t want to be your friend, Julia. Not at all.”
He reached across the table and squeezed her forearm. Instinctively, he glanced around the pub to make sure no one from the cop shop had wandered over for an after-shift drink. He didn’t recognize anyone and looked back at Julia.
“What I want is to be with you. Just like we’ve been.”
“Good. So do I.”
“But we have to be careful. You haven’t been around the department long enough. I have and I know how things get around, and so it’s my fault. We should’ve never left your car in the station lot that first night.”
“Oh, fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
“No, it’s—”
He waited while the barmaid put their beers down on little paper coasters with the Guinness seal on them.
“It’s not like that, Julia,” he said when they were alone again. “If we’re going to keep going, we need to be more careful. We have to go underground. No more meeting at the bench, no more notes, no more anything like that. We can’t even go here anymore because cops come here. We have to be totally underground. We meet outside the division, we talk outside the division.”
“You make it sound like we’re a couple of spies or something.”
Bosch picked up his glass, clicked it off hers and drank deeply from it. It tasted so good after such a long day. He immediately had to stifle a yawn, which Julia caught and repeated.
“Spies? That’s not too far off. You forget, I’ve been in this department more than twenty-five years. You’re just a boot, a baby. I’ve got more enemies inside the wire than you’ve got arrests under your belt. Some of these people would take any opportunity to put me down if they could. It sounds like I’m just worrying about myself here, but the thing is if they need to go after a rookie to get to me, they’ll do it in a heartbeat. I mean that. A heartbeat.”
She turtled her head down and looked both ways.
“Okay, Harry—I mean, Secret Agent double-oh-forty-five.”
Bosch smiled and shook his head.
“Yeah, yeah, you think it’s all a joke. Wait until you get your first IAD jacket. Then you’ll see the light.”
“Come on, I don’t think it’s a joke. I’m just having fun.”
They both drank from their beers, and Bosch leaned back and tried to relax. The heat from the fireplace felt good. The walk over had been brisk. He looked at Julia and she was smiling like she knew a secret about him.
“What?”
“Nothing. You just get so worked up.”
“I’m trying to protect you, that’s all. I’m plus-twenty-five, so it doesn’t matter as much to me.”
“What does that mean? I’ve heard people say that—‘plus-twenty-five’—like they’re untouchable or something.”
Bosch shook his head.
“Nobody’s untouchable. But after you hit twenty-five years in, you top out on the pension scale. So it doesn’t matter if you quit at twenty-five years or thirty-five years, you get the same pension. So ‘plus-twenty-five’ means you have some fuck-you room. You don’t like what they’re doing to you, you can always pull the pin and say have a nice day. Because you’re not in it for the check and the bennies anymore.”
The waitress came back to the table and put down a basket of popcorn. Julia let some time go by and then leaned across the table, her chin almost over the mouth of her pint.
“Then what are you in it for?”
Bosch shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his glass.
“The job, I guess. . . . Nothing big, nothing heroic. Just the chance to maybe make things right every now and then in a fucked-up world.”
He used his thumb to draw patterns on the frosted glass. He continued speaking without taking his eyes off the glass.
“This case, for example . . .”
“What about it?”
“If we can just figure it out and put it together . . . we can maybe make up a little bit for what happened to that kid. I don’t know, I think it might mean something, something really small, to the world.”
He thought about the skull Golliher had held up to him that morning. A murder victim buried in tar for 9,000 years. A city of bones, and all of them waiting to come up out of the ground. For what? Maybe nobody cares anymore.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything in the long run. Suicide terrorists hit New York and three thousand people are dead before they’ve finished their first cup of coffee. What does one little set of bones buried in the past matter?”
She smiled sweetly and shook her head.
“Don’t go existential on me, Harry. The important thing is that it means something to you. And if it means something to you, then it is important to do what you can. No matter what happens in the world, there will always be the need for heroes. I hope someday I get a chance to be one.”
“Maybe.”
He nodded and kept his eyes from hers. He played some more with his glass.
“Do you remember that commercial that used to be on TV, where there’s this old lady who’s on the ground or something and she says, ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,’ and everybody used to make fun of it?”
“I remember. They sell T-shirts that say that on Venice Beach.”
Michael Connelly Page 18
