City Of Bones

toward the arched doorway at the far end of the room.
    “Mrs. Waters,” Bosch said. “If you don’t talk to us now, we will go get that court order.”
    “Fine,” she said without looking back. “Do it. I’ll have one of my attorneys handle it.”
    “And it will become public record at the courthouse in town.”
    It was a gamble but Bosch thought it might stop her. He guessed that her life in Palm Springs was built squarely atop her secrets. And that she wouldn’t want anybody going down into the basement. The social gossips might, like Edgar, have a hard time viewing her actions and motives the way she did. Deep inside, she had a hard time herself, even after so many years.
    She stopped under the archway, composed herself and came back to the couch. Looking at Bosch, she said, “I will only talk to you. I want him to leave.”
    Bosch shook his head.
    “He’s my partner. It’s our case. He stays, Mrs. Waters.”
    “I will still answer questions from you only.”
    “Fine. Please sit down.”
    She did so, this time sitting on the side of the couch farthest from Edgar and closest to Bosch.
    “I know you want to help us find your son’s killer. We’ll try to be as fast as we can here.”
    She nodded once.
    “Just tell us about your ex-husband.”
    “The whole sordid story?” she asked rhetorically. “I’ll give you the short version. I met him in an acting class. I was eighteen. He was seven years older, had already done some film work and to top it off was very, very handsome. You could say I quickly fell under his spell. And I was pregnant before I was nineteen.”
    Bosch checked Edgar to see if he was writing any of this down. Edgar caught the look and started writing.
    “We got married and Sheila was born. I didn’t pursue a career. I have to admit I wasn’t that dedicated. Acting just seemed like something to do at the time. I had the looks but soon I found out every girl in Hollywood had the looks. I was happy to stay at home.”
    “How did your husband do at it?”
    “At first, very well. He got a recurring role on First Infantry. Did you ever watch it?”
    Bosch nodded. It was a World War II television drama that ran in the mid to late sixties, until public sentiment over the Vietnam War and war in general led to declining ratings and it was cancelled. The show followed an army platoon as it moved behind German lines each week. Bosch had liked the show as a kid and always tried to watch it, whether he was in a foster home or the youth hall.
    “Sam was one of the Germans. His blond hair and Aryan looks. He was on it the last two years. Right up until I got pregnant with Arthur.”
    She let some silence punctuate that.
    “Then the show got cancelled because of that stupid war in Vietnam. It got cancelled and Sam had trouble finding work. He was typecast as this German. He really started drinking then. And hitting me. He’d spend his days going to casting calls and getting nothing. He’d then spend his nights drinking and being angry at me.”
    “Why you?”
    “Because I was the one who had gotten pregnant. First with Sheila and then with Arthur. Neither was planned and it all added up to too much pressure on him. He took it out on whoever was close.”
    “He assaulted you.”
    “Assaulted? It sounds so clinical. But yes, he assaulted me. Many times.”
    “Did you ever see him strike the children?”
    It was the key question they had come to ask. Everything else was window dressing.
    “Not specifically,” she said. “When I was carrying Arthur he hit me once. In the stomach. It broke my water. I went into labor about six weeks before my due date. Arthur didn’t even weigh five pounds when he was born.”
    Bosch waited. She was talking in a way that hinted she would say more as long as he gave her the space. He looked out through the sliding door behind her at the golf course. There was a deep sand trap guarding a putting green. A man in a red shirt and plaid pants was in the trap, flailing with a club at an unseen ball. Sprays of sand were flying up out of the trap onto the green. But no ball.
    In the distance three other golfers were getting out of two carts parked on the other side of the green. The lip of the sand trap shielded them from view of the man in the red shirt. As Bosch watched, the man checked up and down the fairway for witnesses, then reached down and grabbed his ball. He threw it up onto the green, giving it the nice arc of a perfectly hit shot. He then