Chapter 42

AS Bosch approached Delacroix’s trailer he saw light behind every curtain of every window. There had been no lights on when they left with Delacroix twelve hours earlier. He drove on by and pulled into the open parking space of a lot several trailers away. He left the box of cat food in the car, walked back to Delacroix’s trailer and watched it from the same position where he had stood when Edgar had hit the door with his warrant knock. Despite the late hour the freeway’s hiss was ever present and hindered his ability to hear sounds or movement from within the trailer.

He slipped his gun out of its holster and went to the door. He carefully and quietly stepped up onto the cinder blocks and tried the doorknob. It turned. He leaned to the door and listened but still could hear nothing from within. He waited another moment, slowly and silently turned the knob and then pulled the door open while raising his weapon.

The living room was empty. Bosch stepped in and swept the trailer with his eyes. No one. He pulled the door closed without a sound.

He looked through the kitchen and down the hallway to the bedroom. The door was partially closed and he could not see anyone, but he heard banging sounds, like somebody closing drawers. He started moving through the kitchen. The smell of cat urine was horrible. He noticed the plate on the floor under the table was clean, the water bowl almost empty. He moved into the hallway and was six feet from the bedroom door when it opened and a head-down figure came toward him.

Sheila Delacroix screamed when she looked up and saw Bosch. Bosch raised his gun and then immediately lowered it when he recognized who it was. Sheila raised her hand to her chest, her eyes growing wide.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

Bosch holstered his weapon.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“It’s my father’s place. I have a key.”

“And?”

She shook her head and shrugged.

“I was… I was worried about the cat. I was looking for the cat. What happened to your face?”

Bosch moved past her in the tight space and stepped into the bedroom.

“Had an accident.”

He looked around the room and saw no cat or anything else that drew his attention.

“I think he’s under the bed.”

Bosch looked back at her.

“The cat. I couldn’t get him out.”

Bosch came back to the door and touched her shoulder, directing her to the living room.

“Let’s go sit down.”

In the living room she sat down in the recliner while Bosch remained standing.

“What were you looking for?”

“I told you, the cat.”

“I heard you opening and closing drawers. The cat like to hide in drawers?”

Sheila shook her head as if to say he was bothering over nothing.

“I was just curious about my father. While I was here I looked around, that’s all.”

“And where’s your car?”

“I parked it by the front office. I didn’t know if there’d be any parking here, so I parked there and walked in.”

“And you were going to walk the cat back on a leash or something?”

“No, I was going to carry him. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

Bosch studied her. He could tell she was lying but he wasn’t sure what he should or could do about it. He decided to throw her a fastball.

“Sheila, listen to me. If you were in any way involved with what happened to your brother, now’s the time to tell me and to try to make a deal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you help your father that night? Did you help him carry your brother up the hill and bury him?”

She brought her hands up to her face so quickly it was as if Bosch had thrown acid in her eyes. Through her hands she yelled, “Oh my God, oh my God, I can’t believe this is happening! What are you-”

She just as abruptly dropped her hands and stared at him with bewildered eyes.

“You think I had something to do with it? How could you think that?”

Bosch waited a moment for her to calm down before answering.

“I think you’re not telling me the truth about what’s going on here. So it makes me suspicious and it means I have to consider all possibilities.”

She abruptly stood up.

“Am I under arrest?”

Bosch shook his head.

“No, Sheila, you’re not. But I would appreciate it if you’d tell me the-”

“Then I’m leaving.”

She stepped around the coffee table and headed for the door with a purposeful stride.

“What about the cat?” Bosch asked.

She didn’t stop. She was through the door and into the night. Bosch heard her answer from outside.

“You take care of it.”

Bosch stepped to the door and watched her walking down the trailer park’s access road, out toward the management building, where her car was parked.

“Yeah,” he said to himself.

He leaned against the door frame and breathed some of the untainted air from the outside. He thought about Sheila and what she might have been doing. After a while he checked his watch and looked back over his shoulder at the interior of the trailer. It was after midnight and he was tired. But he decided he was going to stay and look for whatever it was she had been looking for.

He felt something brush up against his leg and looked down to see a black cat rubbing up against him. He gently pushed it away with his leg. He didn’t care much for cats.

The animal came back and insisted on rubbing its head against Bosch’s leg again. Bosch stepped back into the trailer, causing the cat to make a cautionary retreat of a few feet.

“Wait here,” Bosch said. “I’ve got some food in the car.”

Chapter 43

DOWNTOWN arraignment court was always a zoo. When Bosch entered the courtroom at ten minutes before nine on Friday morning, he saw no judge yet on the bench but a flurry of lawyers conferring and moving about the front of the courtroom like ants on a kicked-over hill. It took a seasoned veteran to know and understand what was going on at any given time in arraignment court.

Bosch first scanned the rows of public seating for Sheila Delacroix but didn’t see her. He next looked for his partner and Portugal, the prosecutor, but they weren’t in the courtroom either. He did notice that two cameramen were setting up equipment next to the bailiff’s desk. Their position would give them a clear view of the glass prisoner docket once court was in session.

Bosch moved forward and pushed through the gate. He took out his badge, palmed it and showed it to the bailiff, who had been studying a computer printout of the day’s arraignment schedule.

“You got a Samuel Delacroix on there?” he asked.

“Arrested Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Thursday. Yesterday.”

The bailiff flipped the top sheet over and ran his finger down a list. He stopped at Delacroix’s name.

“Got it.”

“When will he come up?”

“We’ve still got some Wednesdays to finish. When we get to Thursdays it will depend on who his lawyer is. Private or public?”

“It’ll be a PD, I think.”

“They go in order. You’re looking at an hour, at least. That’s if the judge starts at nine. Last I heard he wasn’t here yet.”

“Thanks.”

Bosch moved toward the prosecution table, having to weave around two groupings of defense lawyers telling war stories while waiting for the judge to take the bench. In the first position at the table was a woman Bosch didn’t recognize. She would be the arraignments deputy assigned to the courtroom. She would routinely handle eighty percent of the arraignments, as most of the cases were minor in nature and had not yet been assigned to prosecutors. In front of her on the table was a stack of files-the morning’s cases-half a foot high. Bosch showed her his badge, too.

“Do you know if George Portugal is coming down for the Delacroix arraignment? It’s a Thursday.”