City Of Bones

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