Edgar smiled but didn’t get one in return from Bosch.

“I’m just thinking about things. This guy might be alive today if we had handled things differently.”

“Come on, Harry. You mean like if we didn’t investigate him? There was no way. We did our job and things ran their course. Nothing we could do. If anybody’s responsible it’s Thornton, and he’s gonna get his due. But if you ask me, the world’s better off without somebody like Trent in it anyway. My conscience is clear, man. Crystal clear.”

“Good for you.”

Bosch thought about his decision to give Edgar the day off on Sunday. If he hadn’t done that, Edgar might have been the one to make the computer runs on the names. Kiz Rider would’ve been out of the loop and the information would have never gotten to Thornton.

He sighed. Everything always seemed to work on a domino theory. If, then, if, then, if, then.

“What’s your gut say on this guy?” he asked Edgar.

“You mean, like did he do the boy on the hill?”

Bosch nodded.

“I don’t know,” Edgar said. “Have to see what the lab says about the dirt and the sister says about the skateboard. If it is the sister and we get an ID.”

Bosch didn’t say anything. But he always felt uncomfortable about relying on lab reports in determining which way to go with an investigation.

“What about you, Har?”

Bosch thought of the photos of all the children Trent thought he was caring for. His act of contrition. His chance at redemption.

“I’m thinking we’re spinning our wheels,” he said. “He isn’t the guy.”

Chapter 20

DEPUTY Chief Irvin Irving sat behind his desk in his spacious office on the sixth floor of Parker Center. Also seated in the room were Lt. Grace Billets, Bosch and Edgar and an officer from the Media Relations unit named Sergio Medina. Irving’s adjutant, a female lieutenant named Simonton, stood in the open doorway of the office in case she was needed.

Irving had a glass-topped desk. There was nothing on it except for two pieces of paper with printing on them that Bosch could not read from his spot in front of Irving’s desk and to the left.

“Now then,” Irving began. “What do we know as fact about Mr. Trent? We know he was a pedophile with a criminal record of abusing a child. We know that he lived a stone’s throw from the burial site of a murdered child. And we know that he committed suicide on the evening he was questioned by investigators in regard to the first two points just stated.”

Irving picked up one of the pages on his desk and studied it without sharing its contents with the room. Finally, he spoke.

“I have here a press release that states those same three facts and goes on to say, ‘Mr. Trent is the subject of an ongoing investigation. Determination of whether he was responsible for the death of the victim found buried near his home is pending lab work and follow-up investigation.’ ”

He looked at the page silently again and then finally put it down.

“Nice and succinct. But it will do little to quell the thirst of the media for this story. Or to help us avert another troubling situation for this department.”

Bosch cleared his throat. Irving seemed to ignore it at first but then spoke without looking at the detective.

“Yes, Detective Bosch?”

“Well, it sort of seems as though you’re not satisfied with that. The problem is, what is on that press release is exactly where we stand. I’d love to tell you I think the guy did the kid on the hill. I’d love to tell you I know he did it. But we are a long way from that and, if anything, I think we’re going to end up concluding the opposite.”

“Based on what?” Irving snapped.

It was becoming clear to Bosch what the purpose of the meeting was. He guessed that the second page on Irving’s desk was the press release the deputy chief wanted to put out. It probably pinned everything on Trent and called his suicide the result of his knowing he would be found out. This would allow the department to handle Thornton, the leaker, quietly outside of the magnifying glass of the press. It would spare the department the humiliation of acknowledging that a leak of confidential information from one of its officers caused a possibly innocent man to kill himself. It would also allow them to close the case of the boy on the hill.

Bosch understood that everyone sitting in the room knew that closing a case of this nature was the longest of long shots. The case had drawn growing media attention, and Trent with his suicide had now presented them with a way out. Suspicions could be cast on the dead pedophile, and the department could call it a day and move on to the next case-hopefully one with a better chance of being solved.

Bosch could understand this but not accept it. He had seen the bones. He had heard Golliher run down the litany of injuries. In that autopsy suite Bosch had resolved to find the killer and close the case. The expediency of department politics and image management would be second to that.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his notebook. He opened it to a page with a folded corner and looked at it as if he was studying a page full of notes. But there was only one notation on the page, written on Saturday in the autopsy suite.

44 separate indications of trauma

His eyes held on the number he had written until Irving spoke again.

“Detective Bosch? I asked, ‘Based on what?’ ”

Bosch looked up and closed the notebook.

“Based on the timing-we don’t think Trent moved into that neighborhood until after that boy was in the ground-and on the analysis of the bones. This kid was physically abused over a long period of time-from when he was a small child. It doesn’t add up to Trent.”

“Analysis of both the timing and the bones will not be conclusive,” Irving said. “No matter what they tell us, there is still a possibility-no matter how slim-that Nicholas Trent was the perpetrator of this crime.”

“A very slim possibility.”

“What about the search of Trent’s home today?”

“We took some old work boots with dried mud in the treads. It will be compared to soil samples taken where the bones were found. But they’ll be just as inconclusive. Even if they match up, Trent could have picked up the dirt hiking behind his house. It’s all part of the same sediment, geologically speaking.”

“What else?”

“Not much. We’ve got a skateboard.”

“A skateboard?”

Bosch explained about the call-in tip he had not had time to follow up on because of the suicide. As he told it, he could see Irving warming to the possibility that a skateboard in Trent’s possession could be linked to the bones on the hill.

“I want that to be your priority,” he said. “I want that nailed down and I want to know it the moment you do.”

Bosch only nodded.

“Yes, sir,” Billets threw in.

Irving went silent and studied the two pages on his desk. Finally, he picked up the one he had not read from-the page Bosch guessed was the loaded press release-and turned at his desk. He slid it into a shredder, which whined loudly as it destroyed the document. He then turned back to his desk and picked up the remaining document.

“Officer Medina, you may put this out to the press.”

He handed the document to Medina, who stood up to receive it. Irving checked his watch.

“Just in time for the six o’clock news,” he said.

“Sir?” Medina said.

“Yes?”

“Uh, there have been many inquiries about the erroneous reports on Channel Four. Should we-”

“Say it is against policy to comment on any internal investigation. You may also add that the department will not condone or accept the leaking of confidential information to the media. That is all, Officer Medina.”