City Of Bones

bail they’re going to be talking about.”
    She opened her eyes.
    “There must be some kind of mistake. What about the man, the man across the street? He killed himself, he must be the one.”
    “We don’t think so, Sheila.”
    “My father couldn’t have done this.”
    “Actually,” Edgar said softly, “he confessed to it.”
    She straightened herself, and Bosch saw the true surprise on her face. And this surprised him. He thought she would have always harbored the idea, the suspicion about her father.
    “He told us that he hit him with a baseball bat because he skipped school,” Bosch said. “Your father said he was drinking at the time and that he just lost it and he hit him too hard. An accident, according to him.”
    Sheila stared back at him as she tried to process this information.
    “He then put your brother’s body in the trunk of the car. He told us that when you two drove around looking for him that night, he was in the trunk all along.”
    She closed her eyes again.
    “Then, later that night,” Edgar continued, “while you were sleeping, he snuck out and drove up into the hills and dumped the body.”
    Sheila started shaking her head like she was trying to fend off the words.
    “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.”

Chapter 40
    BOSCH 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