City Of Bones

was not the killer, that his protests of innocence had been true. And this of course contradicted what he now knew. The skateboard-found in Trent’s house-had the dead boy’s initials on it and the year he both got the skateboard and was killed. The skateboard now served as a tombstone of sorts. A marker for Bosch.
    He finished the Trent interview, but nothing in it, including the parts he had not previously heard, sparked any ideas in him. He rewound the tape and decided to play it again. And it was early in the second go-through that he picked up on something that made his face suddenly grow hot, almost with a feeling of being feverish. He quickly reversed the tape and replayed the exchange between Edgar and Trent that had drawn his attention. He remembered standing in the hallway in Trent’s house and listening to this part of the interview. But he had missed its significance until this moment.
    “Did you like watching the kids play up there in the woods, Mr. Trent?”
    “No, I couldn’t see them if they were up in the woods. On occasion I would be driving up or walking my dog-when he was alive-and I would see the kids climbing up there. The girl across the street. The Fosters next door. All the kids around here. It’s a city-owned right-of-way-the only undeveloped land in the neighborhood. So they went up there to play. Some of the neighbors thought the older ones went up there to smoke cigarettes, and the concern was they would set the whole hillside on fire.”
    He turned off the tape and went back to the kitchen and the phone. Edgar answered after one ring. Bosch could tell he had not been asleep. It was only nine o’clock.
    “You didn’t bring anything home with you, did you?”
    “Like what?”
    “The reverse directory lists?”
    “No, Harry, they’re at the office. What’s up?”
    “I don’t know. Do you remember when you were making that chart on the board today, was there anybody named Foster on Wonderland?”
    “Foster. You mean last name of Foster?”
    “Yeah, last name.”
    He waited. Edgar said nothing.
    “Jerry, you remember?”
    “Harry, take it easy. I’m thinking.”
    More silence.
    “Um,” Edgar finally said. “No Foster. None that I can remember.”
    “How sure are you?”
    “Well, Harry, come on. I don’t have the board or the lists here. But I think I would’ve remembered that name. Why is it so important? What’s going on?”
    “I’ll call you back.”
    Bosch took the phone with him out to the dining room table where he had left his briefcase. He opened it and took out the murder book. He quickly turned to the page that listed the current residents of Wonderland Avenue with their addresses and phone numbers. There were no Fosters on the list. He picked up the phone and punched in a number. After four rings it was answered by a voice he recognized.
    “Dr. Guyot, this is Detective Bosch. Am I calling too late?”
    “Hello, Detective. No, it’s not too late for me. I spent forty years getting phone calls at all hours of the night. Nine o’clock? Nine o’clock is for amateurs. How are your various injuries?”
    “They’re fine, Doctor. I’m in a bit of a hurry and I need to ask you a couple questions about the neighborhood.”
    “Well, go right ahead.”
    “Going way back, nineteen eighty or so, was there ever a family or a couple on the street named Foster?”
    There was silence as Guyot thought over the question.
    “No, I don’t think so,” he finally said. “I don’t remember anybody named Foster.”
    “Okay. Then can you tell me if there was anybody on the street that took in foster kids?”
    This time Guyot answered without hesitation.
    “Uh, yes, there was. That was the Blaylocks. Very nice people. They helped many children over the years, taking them in. I admired them greatly.”
    Bosch wrote the name down on a blank piece of paper at the front of the murder book. He then flipped to the report on the neighborhood canvas and saw there was no one named Blaylock currently living on the block.
    “Do you remember their first names?”
    “Don and Audrey.”
    “What about when they moved from the neighborhood? Do you remember when that was?”
    “Oh, that would have been at least ten years ago. After the last child was grown, they didn’t need that big house anymore. They sold it and moved.”
    “Any idea where they moved to? Are they still local?”
    Guyot said nothing. Bosch waited.
    “I’m trying to remember,” Guyot said. “I know I