“What do you want on it?” the kid asked.

“What do you like?”

“Sausage and pepperoni. Hate anchovies.”

“Make it anchovies.”

Bosch walked back to the detective bureau. Wish and Sharkey were silent when he walked back into the small interview room, and he had the feeling they had not been talking much. Wish had no feel for the boy. She sat to Sharkey’s right. Bosch took the seat on his left. The only window was a small square of mirrored glass in the door. People could look in but not out. Bosch decided to be up front with the boy from the start. He was a kid, but he was probably wiser than most of the men who had sat on the Slider before him. If he sensed deceit, he would start answering questions in one-syllable words.

“Sharkey, we are going to tape this because it might help us later to go over it,” Bosch said. “Like I said, you are not a suspect, so you don’t have to worry about what you say, unless of course you’re going to say you did it.”

“See what I mean?” the boy protested. “I knew you’d get around to saying that and putting on the tape. Shit, I been in one of these rooms before, you know.”

“That’s why we aren’t bullshitting you. So let’s say it once for the record. I’m Harry Bosch, LAPD, this is Eleanor Wish, FBI, and you are Edward Niese, AKA Sharkey. I want to start by-”

“What’s this shit? Was that the president what got dragged in that pipe? What’s the FBI doing here?”

“Sharkey!” Bosch said loudly. “Cool it. It’s just an exchange program. Like when you used to go to school and the kids would come from France or someplace. Think like she’s from France. She’s just kinda watching and learning from the pros.” He smiled and winked at Wish. Sharkey looked over at her and smiled a little, too. “First question, Sharkey, let’s get it out of the way so we can get to the good stuff. Did you do the guy up at the dam?”

“Fuck no. I see-”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Wish broke in. She looked at Bosch. “Can we go outside a moment?”

Bosch got up and walked out. She followed, and this time she closed the interview room door.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“What areyou doing? Are you going to read that kid his rights, or do you want to taint this interview from the start?”

“What are you talking about? He didn’t do it. He isn’t a suspect. I’m just asking him questions because I’m trying to establish an interrogation pattern.”

“We don’t know he isn’t the killer. I think we should give him his rights.”

“We read him his rights and he is going to think we think he’s a suspect, not a witness. We do that and we might as well go in there and talk to the walls. He won’t remember a thing.”

She walked back into the interview room without another word. Bosch followed and picked up where he had left off, without saying anything about anybody’s rights.

“You do the guy in the pipe, Sharkey?”

“No way, man. I seen him, that’s all. He was already dead.”

The boy looked to his right at Wish as he said this. Then he pulled himself up in his chair.

“Okay, Sharkey,” Bosch said. “By the way, how old are you, where you from, tell me a couple of things like that.”

“Almost eighteen, man, then I’m free,” the boy said, looking at Bosch. “My mom lives up in Chatsworth, but I try not to live with-man, you already got all of this in one of your little notebooks.”

“You a faggot, Sharkey?”

“No way, man,” the boy said, staring hard at Bosch. “I sell them pictures, big fucking deal. I ain’t one of ’em.”

“You do more’n sell pictures to them? You roll a few when you get the chance? Bust ’em up, take their money. Who’s going to file a complaint? Right?”

Now Sharkey looked back over to Wish and raised an open hand. “I don’t do that shit. I thought we’re talking about the dead guy.”

“We are, Sharkey,” Bosch said. “I just want to figure out who we’re dealing with here, is all. Take it from the top. Tell us the story. I got pizza coming and there’s more cigarettes. We got the time.”

“It won’t take any time. I din’t see anything, except the body in there. I hope there’s no anchovies.”

He said this looking at Wish while pulling himself up in the chair. He had established a pattern in which he would look at Bosch when he was telling the truth, at Wish when he was shading it or outright lying. Scammers always play to the women, Bosch thought.

“Sharkey,” Bosch said, “if you want we can take you up to Sylmar and have ’em hold you overnight. We can start again in the morning, maybe when you’re memory’s a little-”

“I’m worried about my bike back there, might get stole.”

“Forget the bike,” Bosch said, leaning into the boy’s personal space. “We aren’t spoiling you, Sharkey, you haven’t told us anything yet. Start the story, then we’ll worry about the bike.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you everything.”

The boy reached for his cigarettes on the table and Bosch pulled back and got out one of his own. The leaning in and out of his face was a technique Bosch had learned while spending what seemed like ten thousand hours in these little rooms. Lean in, invade that foot and a half that is all theirs, their own space. Lean back when you get what you want. It’s subliminal. Most of what goes on in a police interrogation has nothing to do with what is said. It is interpretation, nuance. And sometimes what isn’t said. He lit Sharkey’s cigarette first. Wish leaned back in her chair as they exhaled the blue smoke.

“You wanna smoke, Agent Wish?” Bosch said.

She shook her head no.

Bosch looked at Sharkey and a knowing look passed between them. It said, You and me, sport. The boy smiled. Bosch nodded for him to start his story and he did. And it was a story.

“I go up there to crash sometimes,” Sharkey said. “You know? When I don’t find anybody to help me out with some motel money or nothing. Sometimes the room at my crew’s motel is too crowded. I gotta get out. So I go up there, sleep in the pipe. It stays warm most the night. Not bad. So anyway, it was one of those nights. So I went up there-”

“What time was this?” Wish asked.

Bosch gave her a look that said, Cool it, ask the questions after the story is out. The kid had been going pretty good.

“Musta been pretty late,” Sharkey answered. “Three, maybe four o’clock. I don’t have a watch. And so I went up there. And I went in the pipe and I saw the guy that was dead. Just laying there. I climbed out and split. I wasn’t going to stay in there with a dead guy. When I got down the hill I called you guys, nine one one.”

He looked back from Wish to Bosch.

“That’s it,” he said. “Can I get a ride back to my bike?”

No one answered, so Sharkey lit another cigarette and pulled himself up in the chair.

“That’s a nice story, Edward, but we need the whole thing,” Bosch said. “We also need it right.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean it sounds like it was made up by a moron, is what I mean. How’d you see the body in there?”

“I had a flashlight,” he explained to Wish.

“No you didn’t. You had matches, we found one.” Bosch leaned forward until his face was only a foot from the boy’s. “Sharkey, how do you think we knew it was you that called? You think the operator just recognized your voice? ‘Oh, that’s old Sharkey. He’s a good kid, calling us about the body.’ Think, Sharkey. You signed your name-or at least half of it on the pipe up there. We got your prints off a half a can of paint. And we know you only crawled halfway in the pipe. That’s when you got scared and got out. You left tracks.”

Sharkey stared forward, his eyes slightly lifted toward the mirrored window on the door.

“You knew the body was there before you went in. You saw somebody drag it into the pipe, Sharkey. Look at me now and tell me the real story.”