City of Bones (33 page)

“No, no, he . . .”

“Did you ever see your father strike Arthur?” Bosch asked.

Sheila looked at him, seemingly coming out of her daze.

“No, never.”

“Are you sure about that?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing more than a swat on the behind when he was small and being a brat. That’s all.”

Bosch looked over at Edgar and then back at the woman, who was leaning forward again, looking down at the floor by her feet.

“Sheila, I know we’re talking about your father here. But we’re also talking about your brother. He didn’t get much of a chance at life, did he?”

He waited and after a long moment she shook her head without looking up.

“We have your father’s confession and we have evidence. Arthur’s bones tell us a story, Sheila. There are injuries. A lot of them. From his whole life.”

She nodded.

“What we need is another voice. Someone who can tell us what it was like for Arthur to grow up in this house.”

“To try to grow up,” Edgar added.

Sheila straightened herself and used her palms to smear tears across her cheeks.

“All I can tell you is that I never saw him hit my brother. Never once.”

She wiped more tears away. Her face was becoming shiny and distorted.

“This is unbelievable,” she said. “All I did . . . all I wanted was to see if that was Arthur up there. And now . . . I should have never called you people. I should’ve . . .”

She didn’t finish. She pinched the bridge of her nose in an effort to stop the tears.

“Sheila,” Edgar said. “If your father didn’t do it, why would he tell us he did?”

She sharply shook her head and seemed to grow agitated.

“Why would he tell us to tell you he said he was sorry?”

“I don’t know. He’s sick. He drinks. Maybe he wants the attention, I don’t know. He was an actor, you know.”

Bosch pulled the box of photos across the coffee table and used his finger to go through one of the rows. He saw a photo of Arthur as maybe a five-year-old. He pulled it out and studied it. There was no hint in the picture that the boy was doomed, that the bones beneath the flesh were already damaged.

He slid the photo back into its place and looked up at the woman. Their eyes held.

“Sheila, will you help us?”

She looked away from him.

“I can’t.”

40

B
OSCH pulled the car to a stop in front of the drainage culvert and quickly cut the engine. He didn’t want to draw any attention from the residents on Wonderland Avenue. Being in a slickback exposed him. But he hoped it was late enough that all the curtains would be drawn across all the windows.

Bosch was alone in the car, his partner having gone home for the night. He reached down and pushed the trunk release button. He leaned to the side window and looked up into the darkness of the hillside. He could tell that the Special Services unit had already been out and removed the network of ramps and staircases that led to the crime scene. This was the way Bosch wanted it. He wanted it to be as close as possible to the way it was when Samuel Delacroix had dragged his son’s body up the hillside in the dead of night.

The flashlight came on and momentarily startled Bosch. He hadn’t realized he had his thumb on the button. He turned it off and looked out at the quiet houses on the circle. Bosch was following his instincts, returning to the place where it had all begun. He had a guy in lockup for a murder more than twenty years old but it didn’t feel good to him. Something wasn’t right and he was going to start here.

He reached up and switched the dome light off. He quietly opened the door and got out with the flashlight.

At the back of the car he looked around once more and raised the lid. Lying in the trunk was a test dummy he had borrowed from Jesper at the SID lab. Dummies were used on occasion in the restaging of crimes, particularly suspicious suicide jumps and hit-and-runs. The SID had an assortment ranging in size from infant to adult. The weight of each dummy could be manipulated by adding or removing one-pound sandbags from zippered pockets on the torso and limbs.

The dummy in Bosch’s trunk had SID stenciled across the chest. It had no face. In the lab Bosch and Jesper had used sandbags to make it weigh seventy pounds, the estimated weight Golliher had given to Arthur Delacroix based on bone size and the photos of the boy. The dummy wore a store-bought backpack similar to the one recovered during the excavation. It was stuffed with old rags from the trunk of the slickback in an approximation of the clothing found buried with the bones.

Bosch put the flashlight down and grabbed the dummy by its upper arms and pulled it out of the trunk. He hefted it up and over his left shoulder. He stepped back to get his balance and then reached back into the trunk for the flashlight. It was a cheap drugstore light, the kind Samuel Delacroix told them he had used the night he buried his son. Bosch turned it on, stepped over the curb and headed for the hillside.

Bosch started to climb but immediately realized he needed both his hands to grab tree limbs to help pull him up the incline. He shoved the flashlight into one of his front pockets and its beam largely illuminated the upper reaches of the trees and was useless to him.

He fell twice in the first five minutes and quickly exhausted himself before getting thirty feet up the steep slope. Without the flashlight illuminating his path he didn’t see a small leafless branch he was passing and it raked across his cheek, cutting it open. Bosch cursed but kept going.

At fifty feet up Bosch took his first break, dropping the dummy next to the trunk of a Monterey pine and then sitting down on its chest. He pulled his T-shirt up out of his pants and used the cloth to help stanch the flow of blood on his cheek. The wound stung from the sweat that was dripping down his face.

“Okay, Sid, let’s go,” he said when he had caught his breath.

For the next twenty feet he pulled the dummy up the slope. The progress was slower but it was easier than carrying the full weight and it was also the way Delacroix told them he remembered doing it.

After one more break Bosch made it the last thirty feet to the level spot and dragged the dummy into the clearing beneath the acacia trees. He dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels.

“Bullshit,” he said while gulping breath. “This is bullshit.”

He couldn’t see Delacroix doing it. He was maybe ten years older than Delacroix had been when he had supposedly accomplished the same feat but Bosch was in good shape for a man his age. He was also sober, something Delacroix claimed he had not been.

Even though Bosch had been able to get the body to the burial spot, his gut instinct told him Delacroix had lied to them. He had not done it the way he claimed. He either didn’t take the body up the hill or he’d had help. And there was a third possibility, that Arthur Delacroix had been alive and climbed up the hill by himself.

His breathing finally returned to normal. Bosch leaned his head back and looked up through the opening in the canopy of the trees. He could see the night sky and a partial piece of the moon behind a cloud. He realized he could smell burning wood from a fireplace in one of the houses on the circle below.

He pulled the flashlight from his pocket and reached down to a strap sewn onto the back of the dummy. Since taking the dummy down the hill was not part of the test, he intended to pull it by the carrying strap. He was about to get up when he heard movement in the ground cover about thirty feet to his left.

Bosch immediately extended the flashlight in the direction of the noise and caught a fleeting glimpse of a coyote moving in the brush. The animal quickly moved out of the light beam and disappeared. Bosch swept the light back and forth but couldn’t find it. He got up and started dragging the dummy toward the slope.

The law of gravity made going down easier but just as treacherous. As he carefully and slowly chose his steps, Bosch wondered about the coyote. He wondered how long coyotes lived and if the one he had seen tonight could have watched another man twenty years before as he buried a body in the same spot.

Bosch made it down the hill without falling. When he carried the dummy out to the curb he saw Dr. Guyot and his dog standing next to the slickback. The dog was on a leash. Bosch quickly went to the trunk, dumped in the dummy and then slammed it closed. Guyot came around to the back of his car.

“Detective Bosch.”

He seemed to know better than to ask what Bosch was doing.

“Dr. Guyot. How are you?”

“Better than you, I’m afraid. You’ve hurt yourself again. That looks like a nasty laceration.”

Bosch touched his cheek. It still stung.

“It’s all right. Just a scratch. You better keep Calamity on the leash. I just saw a coyote up there.”

“Yes, I never take her off the leash at night. The hills are full of roaming coyotes. We hear them at night. You better come with me to the house. I can butterfly that. If you don’t do it right it will scar.”

A memory of Julia Brasher asking about his scars suddenly came into Bosch’s mind. He looked at Guyot.

“Okay.”

They left the car on the circle and walked down to Guyot’s house. In the back office Bosch sat on the desk while the doctor cleaned the cut on his cheek and then used two butterfly bandages to close it.

“I think you’ll recover,” Guyot said as he closed his first-aid kit. “I don’t know if your shirt will, though.”

Bosch looked down at his T-shirt. It was stained with his blood at the bottom.

“Thanks for fixing me up, Doc. How long do I have to leave these things on?”

“Few days. If you can stand it.”

Bosch gently touched his cheek. It was swelling slightly but the wound was no longer stinging. Guyot turned from his first-aid kit and looked at him and Bosch knew he wanted to say something. He guessed he was going to ask about the dummy.

“What is it, Doctor?”

“The officer that was here that first night. The woman. She was the one who got killed?”

Bosch nodded.

“Yes, that was her.”

Guyot shook his head in genuine sadness. He slowly stepped around the desk and sank into the chair.

“It’s funny sometimes how things go,” he said. “Chain reaction. Mr. Trent across the street. That officer. All because a dog fetched a bone. A most natural thing to do.”

All Bosch could do was nod. He started tucking in his shirt to see if it would hide the part with blood stains.

Guyot looked down at his dog, who was lying in the spot next to the desk chair.

“I wish that I’d never taken her off that leash,” he said. “I really do.”

Bosch slid off the desk and stood up. He looked down at his midsection. The blood stain could not be seen but it didn’t matter because the shirt was stained with his sweat.

“I don’t know about that, Dr. Guyot,” he said. “I think if you start thinking that way, then you’ll never be able to come out your door again.”

They looked at each other and exchanged nods. Bosch pointed to his cheek.

“Thanks for this,” he said. “I can find my way out.”

He turned toward the door. Guyot stopped him.

“On television there was a commercial for the news. They said the police announced an arrest in the case. I was going to watch it at eleven.”

Bosch looked back at him from the doorway.

“Don’t believe everything you see on TV.”

41

T
HE phone rang just as Bosch had finished watching the first session of Samuel Delacroix’s confession. He picked up the remote and muted the sound on his television and then answered the call. It was Lieutenant Billets.

“I thought you were going to call me.”

Bosch took a pull from the bottle of beer he was holding and put it down on the table next to his television chair.

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“Still feeling the same way about things?”

“More so.”

“Well, what is it, Harry? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a detective more upset about a confession before.”

“It’s a lot of things. Something’s going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m beginning to think that maybe he didn’t do it. That maybe he’s setting something up and I don’t know what.”

Billets was quiet a long moment, probably not sure how to respond.

“What does Jerry think?” she finally asked.

“I don’t know what he thinks. He’s happy to clear the case.”

“We all are, Harry. But not if he’s not the guy. Do you have anything concrete? Anything to back up these doubts you are having?”

Bosch gently touched his cheek. The swelling had gone down but the wound itself was sore to the touch. He couldn’t stop himself from touching it.

“I went up to the crime scene tonight. With a dummy from SID. Seventy pounds. I got it up there but it was a hell of a fight.”

“Okay, so you proved it could be done. Where’s the problem?”

“I hauled a dummy up there. This guy was dragging his dead son’s body. I was straight; Delacroix says he was looped. I had been up there before; he hadn’t. I don’t think he could’ve done it. At least not alone.”

“You think he had help? The daughter maybe?”

“Maybe he had help and maybe he was never there. I don’t know. We talked to the daughter tonight and she won’t come across on the father. Won’t say a word. So you start to think, maybe it was the two of them. But then, no. If she was involved, why would she call us and give us the ID on the bones? Doesn’t make sense.”

Billets didn’t respond. Bosch looked at his watch and saw it was eleven o’clock. He wanted to watch the news. He used the remote to turn off the VCR and put the TV on Channel 4.

“You got the news on?” he asked Billets.

“Yes. Four.”

It was the lead story—father kills son and then buries the body, arrested twenty-some years later because of a dog. A perfect L.A. story. Bosch watched silently and so did Billets on her end. The report by Judy Surtain had no inaccuracies that Bosch picked up on. He was surprised.

“Not bad,” he said when it was over. “They finally get it right.”