“What about Stokes?” Edgar said. “Harry, what the fuck happened in that garage?”
“I’m not sure. Listen, I’m going to go in there and talk to him about Arthur Delacroix, see what I can get before OIS storms the place and takes him away. When they get here, see if you can stall them.”
“Yeah, and this Saturday I’m planning to kick Tiger Woods’s ass on Riviera.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Bosch went into the rear hallway and was about to enter room 3 when he realized he had not gotten his recorder back from Detective Bradley of IAD. He wanted to record his interview with Stokes. He walked past the door to room 3 and stepped into the adjoining video room. He turned on the room 3 camera and auxiliary recorder and then went back to room 3.
Bosch sat across from Stokes. The life appeared drained from the younger man’s eyes. Less than an hour before he had been waxing a BMW, picking up a few bucks. Now he was looking at a return to prison-if he was lucky. He knew cop blood in the water brought out the blue sharks. Many were the suspects who were shot trying to escape or inexplicably hung themselves in rooms just like this. Or so it was explained to the reporters.
“Do yourself a big favor,” Bosch said. “Calm the fuck down and don’t do anything stupid. Don’t do anything with these people that gets you killed. You understand me?”
Stokes nodded.
Bosch saw the package of Marlboros in the breast pocket of Stokes’s jumpsuit. He reached across the table, causing Stokes to flinch.
“Relax.”
He took the pack of cigarettes and fired one up with a match from a book slipped behind the cellophane. From the corner of the room he pulled a small trash can next to his chair and dropped in the match.
“If I wanted to hurt you I would’ve done it in the garage. Thanks for the smoke.”
Bosch savored the smoke. It had been at least two months since he’d had a cigarette.
“Can I have one?” Stokes asked.
“No, you don’t deserve one. You don’t deserve shit. But I’m going to make a little deal with you here.”
Stokes raised his eyes to Bosch’s.
“You know that little kick in the ribs you got back there? I’ll trade you. You forget about it and take it like a man and I’ll forget about you spraying me in the face with that shit.”
“My ribs are broke, man.”
“My eyes still burn, man. That was a commercial cleaning chemical. The DA will be able to get assault on a police officer out of that faster than you can say five to ten in Corcoran. You remember being in the Cork, don’t you?”
Bosch let that sink in for a long moment.
“So do we have a deal?”
Stokes nodded but said, “What difference is it going to make? They’re going to say I shot her. I-”
“But I know you didn’t.”
Bosch saw a glimmer of hope returning to Stokes’s eyes.
“And I will tell them exactly what I saw.”
“Okay.”
Stokes’s voice was barely a whisper.
“So let’s start at the start. Why’d you run?”
Stokes shook his head.
“Because it’s what I do, man. I run. I’m a convict and you’re the Man. I run.”
Bosch realized that in all of the confusion and haste, nobody had searched Stokes. He told him to stand up, which could only be accomplished by Stokes leaning over the table because of his shackled wrists. Bosch moved around behind him and started checking his pockets.
“You got any needles?”
“No, man, no needles.”
“Good, I don’t want to get stuck. I get stuck and all deals are off.”
As he searched he held the cigarette in his lips. The smoke stung his already burning eyes. Bosch took out a wallet, a set of keys and roll of cash totaling $27 in ones. Stokes’s tips for the day. There was nothing else. If Stokes had been carrying drugs for sale or personal use, he had tossed them while trying to make his escape.
“They’ll be out there with dogs,” Bosch said. “If you tossed a stash, they’ll find it and there won’t be anything I can do about it.”
“I didn’t toss anything. If they find something, they planted it.”
“Yeah. Just like O.J.”
Bosch sat back down.
“What was the first thing I said to you? I said, ‘I just want to talk.’ It was the truth. All of this…”
Bosch made a sweeping gesture with his hands.
“It could have all been avoided if you had just listened.”
“Cops never want to talk. They always want something more.”
Bosch nodded. He had never been surprised by how accurate the street knowledge of ex-convicts was.
“Tell me about Arthur Delacroix.”
Confusion tightened Stokes’s eyes.
“What? Who?”
“Arthur Delacroix. Your skateboard buddy. From the Miracle Mile days. Remember?”
“Jesus, man, that was-”
“A long time ago. I know. That’s why I’m asking.”
“What about him? He’s long gone, man.”
“Tell me about him. Tell me about when he disappeared.”
Stokes looked down at his cuffed hands and slowly shook his head.
“That was a long time ago. I can’t remember that.”
“Try. Why did he disappear?”
“I don’t know. He just couldn’t take no more of the shit and ran away.”
“Did he tell you he was running away?”
“No, man, he just left. One day he was just gone. And I never saw him again.”
“What shit?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said he couldn’t take any more of the shit and ran away. That shit. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you know, like all the shit in his life.”
“Did he have trouble at home?”
Stokes laughed. He mocked Bosch in an imitation.
“ ‘Did he have trouble at home?’ Like, who didn’t, man?”
“Was he abused-physically abused-at home? is what I mean.”
Again, laughter.
“Who wasn’t? My old man, he’d rather take a shot at me than talk to me about anything. When I was twelve he hit me from across the room with a full can of beer. Just because I ate a taco he wanted. They took me away from him for that.”
“You know, that’s a real shame, but we’re talking about Arthur Delacroix here. Did he ever tell you his father hit him?”
“He didn’t have to, man. I saw the bruises. The guy always had a black eye is what I remember.”
“That was from skateboarding. He fell a lot.”
Stokes shook his head.
“Fuck that, man. Artie was the best. That’s all he did. He was too good to get hurt.”
Bosch’s feet were flat on the floor. He could tell by the sudden vibrations through his soles that there were people in the squad room now. He reached over and pushed the button lock on the doorknob.
“You remember when he was in the hospital? He’d hurt his head. Did he tell you that it was from a skateboarding accident?”
Stokes knitted his brow and looked down. Bosch had jogged loose a direct memory. He could tell.