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.”

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.