“Okay, Detective, you have made your point. My decision still stands. There will be no announcement on Trent. Not at this time, not until we have a solid suspect we can come forward with.”

Bosch shook his head and slumped a bit in his seat.

“What else?” Irving said. “I have a briefing with the chief in two minutes.”

Bosch looked at Billets and shook his head again. He had nothing else he wanted to share. Billets spoke up.

“Chief, at this time I think that’s pretty much where we stand.”

“When do you plan to approach the father, Detectives?”

Bosch poked his chin at Edgar.

“Uh, Chief, Detective Edgar here. We are still looking for a witness that could be important to talk to before approaching the father. That would be a boyhood friend of the victim. We’re thinking he might have knowledge of the abuse the boy suffered. We’re planning to give it the day. We believe he’s here in Hollywood and we have a lot of eyes out there on the-”

“Yes, that is fine, Detective. We will reconvene this conversation tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Chief,” Billets said. “At nine-thirty again?”

There was no answer. Irving was already gone.

Chapter 30

BOSCH and Edgar spent the rest of the morning updating reports and the murder book and calling hospitals all over the city to cancel the records searches they had requested by warrant on Monday morning. But by noon Bosch had had enough of the office work and said he had to get out of the station.

“Where you want to go?” Edgar asked.

“I’m tired of waiting around,” Bosch said. “Let’s go take a look at him.”

They used Edgar’s personal car because it was unmarked and there were no undercover units left in the motor pool. They took the 101 up into the Valley and then the 405 north before exiting in Van Nuys. The Manchester Trailer Park was on Sepulveda near Victory. They drove by it once before coming back and driving in.

There was no gate house, just a yellow-striped speed bump. The park road circled the property, and Sam Delacroix’s trailer was at the rear of the tract, where it bumped up against a twenty-foot-high sound-retention wall next to the freeway. The wall was designed to knock down the nonstop roar of the freeway. All it did was redirect and change its tone, but it was still there.

The trailer was a single-wide with rust stains dripping down the aluminum skin from most of the steel rivet seams. There was an awning with a picnic table and a charcoal grill beneath it. A clothesline ran from one of the awning’s support poles to a corner of the next trailer in line. Near the back of the narrow yard an aluminum storage shed about the size of an outhouse was pushed up against the sound wall.

The windows and door of the trailer were closed. There was no vehicle in the lone parking spot. Edgar kept the car going by at an even five miles an hour.

“Looks like nobody’s home.”

“Let’s try the driving range,” Bosch said. “If he’s over there, maybe you can hit a bucket of balls or something.”

“Always like to practice.”

The range had few customers when they got there but it looked like it had been a busy morning. Golf balls littered the entire range, which was three hundred yards deep, extending to the same sound wall that backed the trailer park. At the far end of the property, netting was erected on high utility poles to protect the freeway drivers from long balls. A small tractor with ball harvesters attached at the rear was slowly traversing the far end of the range, its driver secured in a safety cage.

Bosch watched for a few moments alone until Edgar came up with a half bucket of balls and his golf bag, which had been in the trunk of his car.

“I guess that’s him,” Edgar said.

“Yeah.”

Bosch went over to a bench and sat down to watch his partner hit some balls from a little square of rubber grass. Edgar had taken off his tie and jacket. He didn’t look that much out of place. Hitting balls a few green squares down from him were two men wearing suit pants and button-down shirts, obviously using their lunch break from the office to fine-tune their game.

Edgar propped his bag on a wooden stand and chose one of the irons. He put on a glove, which he had taken from the bag, took a few warm-up swings and then started striking balls. The first few were grounders that made him curse. Then he started getting some air underneath them and he seemed pleased with himself.

Bosch was amused. He had never played golf a single time in his life and couldn’t understand the draw it had for many men-in fact, most of the detectives in the squad room played religiously, and there was a whole network of police tournaments around the state. He enjoyed watching Edgar get worked up even though hitting range balls didn’t count.

“Take a shot at him,” he instructed after he thought Edgar was fully warmed up and ready.

“Harry,” Edgar said. “I know you don’t play but I got news for you. In golf you hit the ball at the pin-the flag. No moving targets in golf.”

“Then how come the ex-presidents are always hitting people?”

“Because they’re allowed to.”

“Come on, you said everybody tries to hit the guy in the tractor. Take a shot.”

“Everybody but the serious golfers.”

But he angled his body so that Bosch could tell he was going to take a shot at the tractor as it came to the end of a crossing and was making the U-turn to go back the other way. Judging by the yardage markers, the tractor was a hundred forty yards out.

Edgar swung but the ball was another grounder.

“Dammit! See, Harry? This could hurt my game.”

Bosch started laughing.

“What are you laughing at?”

“It’s just a game, man. Take another shot.”

“Forget it. It’s childish.”

“Take the shot.”

Edgar didn’t say anything. He angled his body again, taking aim at the tractor, which was now in the middle of the range. He swung and hit the ball, sending it screaming down the middle but a good twenty feet over the tractor.

“Nice shot,” Bosch said. “Unless you were aiming for the tractor.”

Edgar gave him a look but didn’t say anything. For the next five minutes he hit ball after ball at the range tractor but never came closer to it than ten yards. Bosch never said anything but Edgar’s frustrations increased until he turned and angrily said, “You want to try?”

Bosch feigned confusion.

“Oh, you’re still trying to hit him? I didn’t realize.”

“Come on, let’s go.”

“You still have half your balls there.”

“I don’t care. This will set my game back a month.”

“That’s all?”

Edgar angrily shoved the club he had been using into his bag and gave Bosch his dead-eye look. It was all Bosch could do not to burst into laughter.

“Come on, Jerry, I want to get a look at the guy. Can’t you hit a few more? It looks like he’s gotta be done soon.”

Edgar looked out at the range. The tractor was now near the fifty-yard markers. Assuming he had started back at the sound wall, he would be finished soon. There weren’t enough new balls out there-just Edgar’s and the two business guys’-to warrant going back over the entire range.

Edgar silently relented. He took out one of his woods and went back to the green square of fake grass. He hit a beautiful shot that almost carried to the sound wall.

“Tiger Woods, kiss my ass,” he said.

The next shot he put into the real grass ten feet from the tee.

“Shit.”

“When you play for real, do you hit off that fake grass?”

“No, Harry, you don’t. This is practice.”

“Oh, so in practice you don’t re-create the actual playing situation.”

“Something like that.”

The tractor pulled off the range and up to a shed behind the concession stand where Edgar had paid for his bucket of balls. The cage door opened and a man in his early sixties got out. He started pulling wire-mesh baskets full of balls out of the harvester and carrying them into the shed. Bosch told Edgar to keep hitting balls so that they wouldn’t be obvious. Bosch nonchalantly walked toward the concession stand and bought another half bucket of balls. This put him no more than twenty feet from the man who had been driving the tractor.