Michael Connelly - City Of Bones

“Oh, yeah…”

“I think it’s him. He’s the guy. Hear how he said, ‘just because I touched a boy.’ Probably to him, sodomizing a nine-year-old is reaching out and touching somebody.”

Edgar was being reactionary but Bosch didn’t call him on it. He was a father; Bosch wasn’t.

“We’ll get the records and we’ll see. We also have to go to the Hall to check the reverses, see who was on that street back then.”

The reverses were phone books that listed residents by address instead of by name. A collection of the books for every year was kept in the Hall of Records. They would allow the detectives to determine who was living on the street during the 1975 to 1985 range they were looking at as the boy’s time of death.

“That’s going to be a lot of fun,” Edgar said.

“Oh, yeah,” Bosch said. “I can’t wait.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way. Bosch became depressed. He was disappointed with himself for how he had run the investigation so far. The bones were discovered Wednesday, and the full investigation took off on Thursday. He knew he should have run the names-a basic part of the investigation-sooner than Sunday. By delaying it he had given Trent the advantage. He’d had three days to expect and prepare for their questions. He had even been briefed by an attorney. He could have even been practicing his responses and looks in a mirror. Bosch knew what his internal lie detector said. But he also knew that a good actor could beat it.

BOSCH drank a beer on the back porch with the sliding door open so he could hear Clifford Brown on the stereo. Almost fifty years before, the trumpet player made a handful of recordings and then checked out in a car crash. Bosch thought about all the music that had been lost. He thought about young bones in the ground and what had been lost. And then he thought about himself and what he had lost. Somehow the jazz and the beer and the grayness he was feeling about the case had all mixed together in his mind. He felt on edge, like he was missing something that was right in front of him. For a detective it was just about the worst feeling in the world.

At 11 P.M. he came inside and turned the music down so he could watch the news on Channel 4. Judy Surtain’s report was the third story after the first break. The anchor said, “New developments in the Laurel Canyon bone case. We go to Judy Surtain at the scene.”

“Ah, shit,” Bosch said, not liking the sound of the introduction.

The program cut to a live shot of Surtain on Wonderland Avenue, standing on the street in front of a house Bosch recognized as Trent’s.

“I’m here on Wonderland Avenue in Laurel Canyon, where four days ago a dog brought home a bone that authorities say was human. The dog’s find led to the discovery of more bones belonging to a young boy who investigators believe was murdered and then buried more than twenty years ago.”

Bosch’s phone started ringing. He picked it up off the arm of the TV chair and answered it.

“Hold on,” he said and then held the phone down by his side while he watched the news report.

Surtain said, “Tonight the lead investigators on the case returned to the neighborhood to speak to one resident who lives less than one hundred yards from the place where the boy was buried. That resident is Nicholas Trent, a fifty-seven-year-old Hollywood set decorator.”

The program cut to tape of Bosch being questioned by Surtain that night. But it was used as visual filler while Surtain continued her report in a voice-over dub.

“Investigators declined to comment on their questioning of Trent, but Channel Four news has learned-”

Bosch sat down heavily on the chair and braced himself.

“-that Trent was once convicted of molesting a young boy.”

The sound was then brought up on the street interview just as Bosch said, “That’s really all I can tell you.”

The next jump was to video of Trent standing in his doorway and waving the camera off and closing the door.

“Trent declined comment on his status in the case. But neighbors in the normally quiet hillside neighborhood expressed shock upon learning of Trent’s background.”

As the report shifted to a taped interview of a resident Bosch recognized as Victor Ulrich, Bosch hit the mute button on the TV remote and brought the phone up. It was Edgar.

“You watching this shit?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“We look like shit. We look like we told her. They used your quote out of context, Harry. We’re going to be fucked by this.”

“Well, you didn’t tell her, right?”

“Harry, you think I’d tell some-”

“No, I don’t. I was confirming. You didn’t tell her, right?”

“Right.”

“And neither did I. So, yeah, we’re going to take some shit but we’re clear on it.”

“Well, who else knew? I doubt Trent was the one who told her. About a million people now know he’s a child molester.”

Bosch realized the only people who knew were Kiz, who had gotten the records flag while doing the computer work, and Julia Brasher, whom Bosch told while he was making his excuse for missing dinner. Suddenly a vision of Surtain standing at the roadblock on Wonderland came to him. Brasher had volunteered her help during both days of the hillside search and excavation. It was entirely possible that she had connected with Surtain in some way. Was she the reporter’s source, the leak?

“There didn’t have to be a leak,” Bosch said to Edgar. “All she needed was Trent’s name. She could have gotten any cop she knew to run it on the box for her. Or she could have looked it up on the sexual offenders CD. It’s public record. Hold on.”

He had gotten a call-waiting beep on the phone. He switched over and learned it was Lt. Billets calling. He told her to hold while he got off the other line. He clicked over.

“Jerry, it’s Bullets. I gotta call you back.”

“It’s still me,” Billets said.

“Oh, sorry. Hold on.”

He tried again and this time made the switch back. He told Edgar he’d call him back if Billets said anything he needed to know right away.

“Otherwise, go with the plan,” he added. “See you at Van Nuys at eight.”

He switched back over to Billets.

“Bullets?” she said. “Is that what you guys call me?”

“What?”

“You said ‘Bullets.’ When you thought I was Edgar you called me ‘Bullets.’ ”

“You mean just now?”

“Yes, just now.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You mean when I was switching over to-”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I assume you saw Channel Four?”

“Yeah, I saw it. And all I can tell you is that it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Edgar. That woman got a tip that we were out there and we ‘no comment’-ed our way out of there. How she came up with his-”

“Harry, you didn’t ‘no comment’ your way out of there. They have you on tape, your mouth moving, and then I hear you say, ‘that’s all I can say.’ If you say ‘that’s all,’ that means you gave her something.”

Bosch shook his head, even though he was on the phone.

“I didn’t give her shit. I just bullshitted my way by. I told her we were just finishing up the routine canvas of the neighborhood and I hadn’t talked to Trent before.”

“Was that true?”

“Not really, but I wasn’t going to say we were there because the guy’s a child molester. Look, she didn’t know about Trent when we were there. If she did, she would have asked me. She found out later, and how I don’t know. That’s what Jerry and I were just talking about.”

There was silence for a moment before Billets continued.