“Okay, what about the skateboard friend?”
“Got him, too. Still alive, still local. But there’s a problem. I ran all the usual data banks and came up with three John Stokes in L.A. that fall into the right age range. Two are in the Valley, both clean. The third’s a player. Multiple arrests for petty theft, auto theft, burglary and possession going back to a full juvy jacket. Five years ago he finally ran out of second chances and got sent to Corcoran to iron out a nickel. Did two and a half to parole.”
“You talk to his agent? Is Stokes still on the line?”
“Talked to his agent, yes. No, Stokes isn’t on the hook. He cleared parole two months ago. The agent doesn’t know where he is.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, but I got him to pull a look at the client bio. It has Stokes growing up mostly in Mid-Wilshire. In and out of foster homes. In and out of trouble. He’s gotta be our guy.”
“The agent think he’s still in L.A.?”
“Yeah, he thinks so. We just gotta find him. I already had patrol go by his last known-he moved out of there as soon as he cleared parole.”
“So he’s in the wind. Beautiful.”
Edgar nodded.
“We have to put him on the box,” Bosch said. “Start with-”
“Did it,” Edgar said. “I also typed up a roll-call notice and gave it to Mankiewicz a while ago. He promised to get it read at all calls. I’m having a batch of visor photos made, too.”
“Good.”
Bosch was impressed. Getting photos of Stokes to clip to the sun visors of every patrol car was the sort of extra step Edgar usually didn’t bother to make.
“We’ll get him, Harry. I’m not sure what good he’ll do us, but we’ll get him.”
“He could be a key witness. If Arthur-I mean, the vic-ever told him his father was beating him, then we’ve got something.”
Bosch looked at his watch. It was almost two. He wanted to keep things moving, keep the investigation focused and urgent. For him the most difficult time was waiting. Whether it was for lab results or other cops to make moves, it was always when he became most agitated.
“What do you have going tonight?” he asked Edgar.
“Tonight? Nothing much.”
“You got your kid tonight?”
“No, Thursdays. Why?”
“I’m thinking about going out to the Springs.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, talk to the ex-wife.”
He saw Edgar check his watch. He knew that even if they left that moment, they still wouldn’t get back until late.
“It’s all right. I can go by myself. Just give me the address.”
“Nah, I’m going with you.”
“You sure? You don’t have to. I just don’t like waitin’ around for something to happen, you know?”
“Yeah, Harry, I know.”
Edgar stood up and took his jacket off the back of his chair.
“Then I’ll go tell Bullets,” Bosch said.
Chapter 27
THEY were more than halfway across the desert to Palm Springs before either one of them spoke.
“Harry,” Edgar said, “you’re not talking.”
“I know,” Bosch said.
The one thing they had always had as partners was the ability to share long silences. Whenever Edgar felt the need to break the silence, Bosch knew there was something on his mind he wanted to talk about.
“What is it, J. Edgar?”
“Nothing.”
“The case?”
“No, man, nothing. I’m cool.”
“All right, then.”
They were passing a windmill farm. The air was dead. None of the blades were turning.
“Did your parents stay together?” Bosch asked.
“Yeah, all the way,” Edgar said, then he laughed. “I think they wished sometimes they didn’t but, yeah, they stuck it out. That’s how it goes, I guess. The strong survive.”
Bosch nodded. They were both divorced but rarely talked about their failed marriages.
“Harry, I heard about you and the boot. It’s getting around.”
Bosch nodded. This is what Edgar had wanted to bring up. Rookies in the department were often called “boots.” The origin of the term was obscure. One school of thought was that it referred to boot camp, another that it was a sarcastic reference to rookies being the new boots of the fascist empire.
“All I’m saying, man, is be careful with that. You got rank on her, okay?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll figure something out.”
“From what I hear and have seen, she’s worth the risk. But you still gotta be careful.”
Bosch didn’t say anything. After a few minutes they passed a road sign that said Palm Springs was coming up in nine miles. It was nearing dusk. Bosch was hoping to knock on the door where Christine Waters lived before it got dark.
“Harry, you going to take the lead on this, when we get there?”
“Yeah, I’ll take it. You can be the indignant one.”
“That will be easy.”
Once they crossed the city boundary into Palm Springs they picked up a map at a gas station and made their way through the town until they found Frank Sinatra Boulevard and took it up toward the mountains. Bosch pulled the car up to the gate house of a place called Mountaingate Estates. Their map showed the street Christine Waters lived on was within Mountaingate.
A uniformed rent-a-cop stepped out of the gate house, eying the slickback they were in and smiling.
“You guys are a little ways off the beat,” he said.
Bosch nodded and tried to give a pleasant smile. But it only made him look like he had something sour in his mouth.
“Something like that,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“We’re going to talk to Christine Waters, three-twelve Deep Waters Drive.”
“Mrs. Waters know you’re coming?”
“Not unless she’s a psychic or you tell her.”
“That’s my job. Hold on a second.”
He returned to the gate house and Bosch saw him pick up a phone.
“Looks like Christine Delacroix seriously traded up,” Edgar said.
He was looking through the windshield at some of the homes that were visible from their position. They were all huge with manicured lawns big enough to play touch football on.
The guard came out, put both hands on the window sill of the car and leaned down to look in at Bosch.
“She wants to know what it’s about.”
“Tell her we’ll discuss it with her at her house. Privately. Tell her we have a court order.”
The guard shrugged his shoulders in a have-it-your-way gesture and went back inside. Bosch watched him speaking on the phone for a few more moments. After he hung up, the gate started to open slowly. The guard stood
