City Of Bones

door with his fist at 3:30 on Thursday afternoon. Edgar waited a few seconds and then hit it again, this time announcing “POLICE!” and then stepping back off the stoop, which was a stack of unconnected concrete blocks.
    They waited. Neither had a weapon out but Bosch had his hand under his jacket and was gripping his gun in its holster. It was his standard procedure when delivering a warrant on a person not believed to be dangerous.
    Bosch listened for movements from inside but the hiss from the nearby freeway was too loud. He checked the windows; none of the closed curtains were moving.
    “You know,” Bosch whispered, “I’m starting to think it comes as a relief when you yell it’s just the cops after that knock. At least then they know it’s not an earthquake.”
    Edgar didn’t respond. He probably knew it was just nervous banter from Bosch. It wasn’t anxiety about the door knock-Bosch fully expected Delacroix to be easy. He was anxious because he knew the case was all coming down to the next few hours with Delacroix. They would search the trailer and then have to make a decision, largely communicated in partners’ code, on whether to arrest Delacroix for his son’s murder. Somewhere in that process they would need to find the evidence or elicit the confession that would change a case largely built on theory into one built on lawyer-resistant fact.
    So in Bosch’s mind they were quickly approaching the moment of truth, and that always made him nervous.
    Earlier, in the case status meeting with Lt. Billets, it had been decided that it was time to talk to Sam Delacroix. He was the victim’s father, he was the chief suspect. What little evidence they had still pointed to him. They spent the next hour typing up a search warrant for Delacroix’s trailer and taking it to the downtown criminal courts building to a judge who was normally a soft touch.
    But even this judge took some convincing. The problem was the case was old, the evidence directly linking the suspect was thin and the place Bosch and Edgar wanted to search was not where the homicide could have occurred and was not even occupied by the suspect at the time of the death.
    What the detectives had in their favor was the emotional impact that came from the list in the warrant of all the injuries that the boy’s bones indicated he had sustained over his short life. In the end, it was all those fractures that won the judge over and he signed the warrant.
    They had gone to the driving range first but were informed that Delacroix was finished driving the tractor for the day.
    “Give him another shot,” Bosch told Edgar outside the trailer.
    “I think I can hear him coming.”
    “I don’t care. I want him rattled.”
    Edgar stepped back up onto the stoop and hit the door again. The concrete blocks wobbled and he didn’t plant his feet firmly. The resulting knock didn’t carry the power and terror of the first two assaults on the door.
    Edgar stepped back down.
    “That wasn’t the police,” Bosch whispered. “That was a neighbor complaining about the dog or something.”
    “Sorry, I-”
    The door came open and Edgar shut up. Bosch went into high alert. Trailers were tricky. Unlike most structures, their doors opened outward so that the interior space didn’t have to accommodate the swing. Bosch was positioned on the blind side, so that whoever answered was looking at Edgar but couldn’t see Bosch. The problem was Bosch couldn’t see whoever had opened the door either. If there was trouble Edgar’s job was to yell a warning to Bosch and get himself clear. Without hesitation Bosch would empty his gun into the door of the trailer, the bullets tearing through the aluminum and whoever was on the other side like they were paper.
    “What?” a man’s voice said.
    Edgar held up his badge. Bosch studied his partner for any warning sign of trouble.
    “Mr. Delacroix, police.”
    Seeing no sign of alarm, Bosch stepped forward and grabbed the knob and pulled the door all the way open. He kept his jacket flipped back and his hand on the grip of his gun.
    The man he had seen on the golf range the day before was standing there. He wore an old pair of plaid shorts and a washed-out maroon T-shirt with permanent stains under the arms.
    “We have a warrant allowing us to search these premises,” Bosch said. “Can we come in?”
    “You guys,” Delacroix said. “You guys were at the range yesterday.”
    “Sir,” Bosch said forcefully, “I