“You’re always so sure, Harry,” Billets said. “It must be nice.”

“Well, I’m sure about this.”

He stood up.

“And I’d like to get back to it. We’ve got stuff happening.”

“I know all about it. Jerry was just telling me. But sit down and let’s get back to this for one minute, okay?”

Bosch sat back down.

“I can’t just talk to Irving the way I let you talk to me,” Billets said. “This is what I am going to do. I am going to update him on the ID and everything else. I am going to say you are pursuing the case as is. I will then invite him to assign IAD to the background investigation of Trent. In other words, if he remains unconvinced by the circumstances of the ID, then he can have IAD or whoever he can find run the background on Trent to see where he was in nineteen eighty.”

Bosch just looked at her, giving no indication of approval or disapproval of her plan.

“Can we go now?”

“Yes, you can go.”

When they got back to the homicide table and sat down Edgar asked Bosch why he hadn’t mentioned the theory that maybe Trent moved into the neighborhood because he knew the bones were up on the hillside.

“Because your ‘sick fuck’ theory is too farfetched to go beyond this table for the time being. If that gets to Irving, next thing you know it’s in a press release and is the official line. Now, did you get anything on the box or not?”

“Yeah, I got stuff.”

“What?”

“First of all, I confirmed Samuel Delacroix’s address at the Manchester Trailer Park. So he’s there when we want to go see him. In the last ten years he’s had two DUIs. He drives on a restricted license at the moment. I also ran his Social and came up with a hit-he works for the city.”

Bosch’s face showed his surprise.

“Doing what?”

“He works part-time at a driving range at the municipal golf course right next to the trailer park. I made a call to Parks and Recs-discreetly. Delacroix drives the cart that collects all the balls. You know, out on the range. The guy everybody tries to hit when he’s out there. I guess he comes over from the trailer park and does it a couple times a day.”

“Okay.”

“Next, Christine Dorsett Delacroix, the name of the mother on Sheila’s birth certificate. I ran her Social and got her now listed as a Christine Dorsett Waters. Address is in Palm Springs. Must’ve gone there to re-invent herself. New name, new life, whatever.”

Bosch nodded.

“You pull the divorce?”

“Got it. She filed on Samuel Delacroix in ’seventy-three. The boy would’ve been about five at the time. Cited mental and physical abuse. Details of what that abuse consisted of were not included. It never went to trial, so the details never came out.”

“He didn’t contest it?”

“It looks like a deal was made. He got custody of the two kids and didn’t contest. Nice and clean. The file’s about twelve pages thick. I’ve seen some that are twelve inches. My own, for example.”

“If Arthur was five… some of those injuries predate that, according to the anthropologist.”

Edgar shook his head.

“The extract says the marriage had ended three years prior and they were living separately. So it looks like she split when the boy was about two-like Sheila said. Harry, you usually don’t refer to the vic by name.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Just pointing it out.”

“Thank you. Anything else in the file?”

“That’s about it. I got copies if you want it.”

“Okay, what about the skateboard friend?”

“Got him, too. Still alive, still local. But there’s a problem. I ran all the usual data banks and came up with three John Stokes in L.A. that fall into the right age range. Two are in the Valley, both clean. The third’s a player. Multiple arrests for petty theft, auto theft, burglary and possession going back to a full juvy jacket. Five years ago he finally ran out of second chances and got sent to Corcoran to iron out a nickel. Did two and a half to parole.”

“You talk to his agent? Is Stokes still on the line?”

“Talked to his agent, yes. No, Stokes isn’t on the hook. He cleared parole two months ago. The agent doesn’t know where he is.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, but I got him to pull a look at the client bio. It has Stokes growing up mostly in Mid-Wilshire. In and out of foster homes. In and out of trouble. He’s gotta be our guy.”

“The agent think he’s still in L.A.?”

“Yeah, he thinks so. We just gotta find him. I already had patrol go by his last known-he moved out of there as soon as he cleared parole.”

“So he’s in the wind. Beautiful.”

Edgar nodded.

“We have to put him on the box,” Bosch said. “Start with-”

“Did it,” Edgar said. “I also typed up a roll-call notice and gave it to Mankiewicz a while ago. He promised to get it read at all calls. I’m having a batch of visor photos made, too.”

“Good.”

Bosch was impressed. Getting photos of Stokes to clip to the sun visors of every patrol car was the sort of extra step Edgar usually didn’t bother to make.

“We’ll get him, Harry. I’m not sure what good he’ll do us, but we’ll get him.”

“He could be a key witness. If Arthur-I mean, the vic-ever told him his father was beating him, then we’ve got something.”

Bosch looked at his watch. It was almost two. He wanted to keep things moving, keep the investigation focused and urgent. For him the most difficult time was waiting. Whether it was for lab results or other cops to make moves, it was always when he became most agitated.

“What do you have going tonight?” he asked Edgar.

“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.

Chapter 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.