in the open doorway and waved them in. But not without the last word.
“You know that tough-guy stuff probably works real well for you in L.A. Out here in the desert it’s just-”
Bosch didn’t hear the rest. He drove through the gate while putting the window up.
They found Deep Waters Drive at the far extreme of the development. The homes here looked to be a couple million dollars more opulent than those built near the entrance to Mountaingate.
“Who would name a street in the desert Deep Waters Drive?” Edgar mused.
“Maybe somebody named Waters.”
It dawned on Edgar then.
“Damn. You think? Then she really has traded up.”
The address Edgar came up with for Christine Waters corresponded with a mansion of contemporary Spanish design that sat at the end of a cul-de-sac at the terminus of Mountaingate Estates. It was most definitely the development’s premier lot. The house was positioned on a promontory that afforded it a view of all the other homes in the development as well as a sweeping view of the golf course that surrounded it.
The property had its own gated drive but the gate was open. Bosch wondered if it always stood open or had been opened for them.
“This is going to be interesting,” Edgar said as they pulled into a parking circle made of interlocking paving stones.
“Just remember,” Bosch said, “people can change their addresses but they can’t change who they are.”
“Right. Homicide one-oh-one.”
They got out and walked under the portico that led to the double-wide front door. It was opened before they got to it by a woman in a black-and-white maid’s uniform. In a thick Spanish accent the woman told them that Mrs. Waters was waiting in the living room.
The living room was the size and had the feel of a small cathedral, with a twenty-five-foot ceiling with exposed roof beams. High on the wall facing the east were three large stained-glass windows, a triptych depicting a sunrise, a garden and a moonrise. The opposite wall had six side-by-side sliding doors with a view of a golf course putting green. The room had two distinct groupings of furniture, as if to accommodate two separate gatherings at the same time.
Sitting in the middle of a cream-colored couch in the first grouping was a woman with blonde hair and a tight face. Her pale blue eyes followed the men as they entered and took in the size of the room.
“Mrs. Waters?” Bosch said. “I am Detective Bosch and this is Detective Edgar. We’re from the Los Angeles Police Department.”
He held out his hand and she took it but didn’t shake it. She just held it for a moment and then moved on to Edgar’s outstretched hand. Bosch knew from the birth certificate that she was fifty-six years old. But she looked close to a decade younger, her smooth tan face a testament to the wonders of modern medical science.
“Please have a seat,” she said. “I can’t tell you how embarrassed I am to have that car sitting in front of my house. I guess discretion is not the better part of valor when it comes to the LAPD.”
Bosch smiled.
“Well, Mrs. Waters, we’re kind of embarrassed about it, too, but that’s what the bosses tell us to drive. So that’s what we drive.”
“What is this about? The guard at the gate said you have a court order. May I see it?”
Bosch sat down on a couch directly opposite her and across a black coffee table with gold designs inlaid on it.
“Uh, he must have misunderstood me,” he said. “I told him we could get a court order, if you refused to see us.”
“I’m sure he did,” she replied, the tone of her voice letting them know she didn’t believe Bosch at all. “What do you want to see me about?”
“We need to ask you about your husband.”
“My husband has been dead for five years. Besides that, he rarely went to Los Angeles. What could he possibly-”
“Your first husband, Mrs. Waters. Samuel Delacroix. We need to talk to you about your children as well.”
Bosch saw a wariness immediately enter her eyes.
“I… I haven’t seen or spoken to them in years. Almost thirty years.”
“You mean since you went out for medicine for the boy and forgot to come back home?” Edgar asked.
The woman looked at him as though he had slapped her. Bosch had hoped Edgar was going to use a little more finesse when he acted indignant with her.
“Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Waters,” Bosch said. “I want to ask questions first and then we can get to yours.”
“I don’t understand this. How did you find me? What are you doing? Why are you here?”
Her voice rose with emotion from question to question. A life she had put aside thirty years before was suddenly intruding into the carefully ordered life she now had.
“We are homicide investigators, ma’am. We are working on a case that may involve your husband. We-”
“He’s not my husband. I divorced him twenty-five years ago, at least. This is crazy, you coming here to ask about a man I don’t even know anymore, that I didn’t even know was still alive. I think you should leave. I want you to leave.”
She stood up and extended her hand in the direction they had come in.
Bosch glanced at Edgar and then back at the woman. Her anger had turned the tan on her sculptured face uneven. There were blotches beginning to form, the tell of plastic surgery.
“Mrs. Waters, sit down,” Bosch said sternly. “Please try to relax.”
“Relax? Do you know who I am? My husband built this place. The houses, the golf course, everything. You can’t just come in here like this. I could pick up the phone and have the chief of police on the line in two-”
“Your son is dead, lady,” Edgar snapped. “The one you left behind thirty years ago. So sit down and let us ask you our questions.”
She dropped back onto the couch as if her feet had been kicked out from beneath her. Her mouth opened and then closed. Her eyes were no longer on them, they were on some distant memory.
“Arthur…”
“That’s right,” Edgar said. “Arthur. Glad you at least remember it.”
They watched her in silence for a few moments. All the years and all the distance wasn’t enough. She was hurt by the news. Hurt bad. Bosch had seen it before. The past had a way of coming back up out of the ground. Always right below your feet.
Bosch took his notebook out of his pocket and opened it to a blank page. He wrote “Cool it” on it and handed the notebook to Edgar.
“Jerry, why don’t you take some notes? I think Mrs. Waters wants to cooperate with us.”
His speaking drew Christine Waters out of her blue reverie. She looked at Bosch.
“What happened? Was it Sam?”
“We don’t know. That’s why we’re here. Arthur has been dead a long time. His remains were found just last week.”
She slowly brought one of her hands to her mouth in a fist. She lightly started bumping it against her lips.
“How long?”
“He had been buried for twenty years. It was a call from your daughter that helped us identify him.”
“Sheila.”
It was as if she had not spoken the name in so long she had to try it out to see if it still worked.
“Mrs. Waters, Arthur disappeared in nineteen eighty. Did you know about that?”
She shook her head.
“I was gone. I left almost ten years before that.”
“And you had no contact with your family at all?”
“I thought…”
She didn’t finish. Bosch waited.
“Mrs. Waters?”
“I couldn’t take them with me. I was young and couldn’t handle… the responsibility. I ran away. I admit that. I
