City Of Bones

we need your help. This is your brother we’re talking about.”
    He opened the bottle and took a long draw of water. For the first time he noticed how warm it was in the room. Sheila spoke while he took his second drink from the bottle.
    “I understand something now…”
    “What is that?”
    She was staring down at her hands. When she spoke it was like she was speaking to herself. Or to nobody.
    “After Arthur was gone, my father never touched me again. I never… I thought it was because I had become undesirable in some way. I was overweight, ugly. I think now maybe it was because… he was afraid of what he thought I had done or what I might be able to do.”
    She put the envelope back down on the desk. Bosch leaned forward again.
    “Sheila, is there anything else about that time, about that last day, that you didn’t tell us before? Anything that can help us?”
    She nodded very slightly and then bowed her head, hiding her face behind her raised fists.
    “I knew he was running away,” she said slowly. “And I didn’t do anything to stop him.”
    Bosch moved forward on the edge of the seat. He spoke gently to her.
    “How so, Sheila?”
    There was a long pause before she answered.
    “When I came home from school that day. He was there. In his room.”
    “So he did come home?”
    “Yes. For a little bit. His door was open a crack and I looked in. He didn’t see me. He was putting things into his book bag. Clothes, things like that. I knew what he was doing. He was packing and was going to run. I just… I went into my room and closed the door. I wanted him to go. I guess I hated him, I don’t know. But I wanted him gone. To me he was the cause of everything. I just wanted him to be gone. I stayed in my room until I heard the front door close.”
    She raised her face and looked at Bosch. Her eyes were wet but Bosch had often before seen that in a purging of guilt and truth came a strength. He saw it in her eyes now.
    “I could have stopped him but I didn’t. And that’s what I’ve had to live with. Now that I know what happened to him…”
    Her eyes went off past Bosch, somewhere over his shoulder, where she could see the wave of guilt coming toward her.
    “Thank you, Sheila,” Bosch said softly. “Is there anything else you know that could help us?”
    She shook her head.
    “We’ll leave you alone now.”
    He got up and moved the chair back to the spot in the middle of the room. He then came back to the desk and picked up the envelope containing the Polaroids. He headed toward the office door and Edgar opened it.
    “What will happen to him?” she asked.
    They turned around and looked back. Edgar closed the door. Bosch knew she was talking about her father.
    “Nothing,” he said. “What he did to you is long past any statute of limitation. He goes back to his trailer.”
    She nodded without looking up at Bosch.
    “Sheila, he may have been a destroyer at one time. But time has a way of changing things. It’s a circle. It takes power away and gives it to those who once had none. Right now your father is the one who is destroyed. Believe me. He can’t hurt you anymore. He’s nothing.”
    “What will you do with the photographs?”
    Bosch looked down at the envelope in his hand and then back up at her.
    “They have to go into the file. Nobody will see them.”
    “I want to burn them.”
    “Burn the memories.”
    She nodded. Bosch was turning to go when he heard her laugh and he looked back at her. She was shaking her head.
    “What?”
    “Nothing. It’s just that I’ve got to sit here and listen to people trying to talk and sound like you all day. And I know right now nobody will come close. Nobody will get it right.”
    “That’s show business,” Bosch said.
    As they headed back down the hallway to the stairs Bosch and Edgar passed by all the actors again. In the stairwell the one named Frank was saying his lines out loud. He smiled at the true detectives as they passed.
    “Hey, guys, you guys are for real, right? How do you think I was doing in there?”
    Bosch didn’t answer.
    “You were great, Frank,” Edgar said. “You’re a closer, man. The proof is in the pudding.”

Chapter 46
    AT two o’clock Friday afternoon Bosch and Edgar made their way through the squad room to the homicide table. They had driven from the Westside to Hollywood in virtual silence. It was the tenth day of the case. They were no closer to the killer of Arthur Delacroix than they had been