City Of Bones

Why’d you run?”
    Stokes shook his head.
    “Because it’s what I do, man. I run. I’m a convict and you’re the Man. I run.”
    Bosch realized that in all of the confusion and haste, nobody had searched Stokes. He told him to stand up, which could only be accomplished by Stokes leaning over the table because of his shackled wrists. Bosch moved around behind him and started checking his pockets.
    “You got any needles?”
    “No, man, no needles.”
    “Good, I don’t want to get stuck. I get stuck and all deals are off.”
    As he searched he held the cigarette in his lips. The smoke stung his already burning eyes. Bosch took out a wallet, a set of keys and roll of cash totaling $27 in ones. Stokes’s tips for the day. There was nothing else. If Stokes had been carrying drugs for sale or personal use, he had tossed them while trying to make his escape.
    “They’ll be out there with dogs,” Bosch said. “If you tossed a stash, they’ll find it and there won’t be anything I can do about it.”
    “I didn’t toss anything. If they find something, they planted it.”
    “Yeah. Just like O.J.”
    Bosch sat back down.
    “What was the first thing I said to you? I said, ‘I just want to talk.’ It was the truth. All of this…”
    Bosch made a sweeping gesture with his hands.
    “It could have all been avoided if you had just listened.”
    “Cops never want to talk. They always want something more.”
    Bosch nodded. He had never been surprised by how accurate the street knowledge of ex-convicts was.
    “Tell me about Arthur Delacroix.”
    Confusion tightened Stokes’s eyes.
    “What? Who?”
    “Arthur Delacroix. Your skateboard buddy. From the Miracle Mile days. Remember?”
    “Jesus, man, that was-”
    “A long time ago. I know. That’s why I’m asking.”
    “What about him? He’s long gone, man.”
    “Tell me about him. Tell me about when he disappeared.”
    Stokes looked down at his cuffed hands and slowly shook his head.
    “That was a long time ago. I can’t remember that.”
    “Try. Why did he disappear?”
    “I don’t know. He just couldn’t take no more of the shit and ran away.”
    “Did he tell you he was running away?”
    “No, man, he just left. One day he was just gone. And I never saw him again.”
    “What shit?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You said he couldn’t take any more of the shit and ran away. That shit. What are you talking about?”
    “Oh, you know, like all the shit in his life.”
    “Did he have trouble at home?”
    Stokes laughed. He mocked Bosch in an imitation.
    “ ‘Did he have trouble at home?’ Like, who didn’t, man?”
    “Was he abused-physically abused-at home? is what I mean.”
    Again, laughter.
    “Who wasn’t? My old man, he’d rather take a shot at me than talk to me about anything. When I was twelve he hit me from across the room with a full can of beer. Just because I ate a taco he wanted. They took me away from him for that.”
    “You know, that’s a real shame, but we’re talking about Arthur Delacroix here. Did he ever tell you his father hit him?”
    “He didn’t have to, man. I saw the bruises. The guy always had a black eye is what I remember.”
    “That was from skateboarding. He fell a lot.”
    Stokes shook his head.
    “Fuck that, man. Artie was the best. That’s all he did. He was too good to get hurt.”
    Bosch’s feet were flat on the floor. He could tell by the sudden vibrations through his soles that there were people in the squad room now. He reached over and pushed the button lock on the doorknob.
    “You remember when he was in the hospital? He’d hurt his head. Did he tell you that it was from a skateboarding accident?”
    Stokes knitted his brow and looked down. Bosch had jogged loose a direct memory. He could tell.
    “I remember he had a shaved head and stitches like a fucking zipper. I can’t remember what he-”
    Someone tried the door from the outside and then there was a harsh banging on the door. A muffled voice came through.
    “Detective Bosch, this is Lieutenant Gilmore, OIS. Open the door.”
    Stokes suddenly reared back, panic filling his eyes.
    “No! Don’t let them-”
    “Shut up!”
    Bosch leaned across the table, grabbed Stokes by the collar and pulled him forward.
    “Listen to me, this is important.”
    There was another knock on the door.
    “Are you saying that Arthur never told you his father hurt him?”
    “Look, man, take care of me here and I’ll say whatever the fuck you want