City Of Bones

said that we have a search warrant for this trailer. Can we come in and conduct the search?”
    Bosch took the folded warrant out of his pocket and held it up, but not within Delacroix’s reach. That was the trick. To get the warrant they had to show all their cards to a judge. But they didn’t want to show the same cards to Delacroix. Not just yet. So while Delacroix was entitled to read and study the warrant before granting the detectives entrance, Bosch was hoping to get inside the trailer without that happening. Delacroix would soon know the facts of the case, but Bosch wanted to control the delivery of information to him so that he could take readings and make judgments based on the suspect’s reactions.
    Bosch started putting the warrant back into his inside coat pocket.
    “What’s this about?” Delacroix asked in muted protest. “Can I at least see that thing?”
    “Are you Samuel Delacroix?” Bosch replied quickly.
    “Yes.”
    “This is your trailer, correct, sir?”
    “It’s my trailer. I lease the spot. I want to read the-”
    “Mr. Delacroix,” Edgar said. “We’d rather not stand out here in the view of your neighbors discussing this. I’m sure you don’t want that either. Are you going to allow us to lawfully execute the search warrant or not?”
    Delacroix looked from Bosch to Edgar and then back to Bosch. He nodded his head.
    “I guess so.”
    Bosch was first onto the stoop. He entered, squeezing by Delacroix on the threshold and picking up the odor of bourbon and bad breath and cat urine.
    “Starting early, Mr. Delacroix?”
    “Yeah, I’ve had a drink,” Delacroix said with a mixture of so-what and self-loathing in his voice. “I’m done my work. I’m entitled.”
    Edgar came in then, a much tighter squeeze past Delacroix, and he and Bosch scanned what they could see of the dimly lit trailer. To the right from the doorway was the living room. It was wood paneled and had a green Naugahyde couch and a coffee table with pieces of the wood veneer scraped off, exposing the particleboard beneath. There was a matching lamp table with no lamp on it and a television stand with a TV awkwardly stacked on top of a videocassette recorder. There were several videotapes stacked on top of the television. Across from the coffee table was an old recliner with its shoulders torn open-probably by a cat-and stuffing leaking out. Under the coffee table was a stack of newspapers, most of them gossip tabloids with blaring headlines.
    To the left was a galley-style kitchen with sink, cabinets, stove, oven and refrigerator on one side and a four-person dining booth on the right. There was a bottle of Ancient Age bourbon on the table. On the floor under the table were a few crumbs of cat food on a plate and an old plastic margarine tub half full of water. There was no sign of the cat, other than the smell of its urine.
    Beyond the kitchen was a narrow hallway leading back to one or two bedrooms and a bathroom.
    “Let’s leave the door open and open up a few windows,” Bosch said. “Mr. Delacroix, why don’t you sit down on the couch there?”
    Delacroix moved toward the couch and said, “Look, you don’t have to search the place. I know why you’re here.”
    Bosch glanced at Edgar and then at Delacroix.
    “Yeah?” Edgar said. “Why are we here?”
    Delacroix dropped himself heavily into the middle of the couch. The springs were shot. He sank into the midsection, and the ends of the cushion on either side of him rose into the air like the bows of twin Titanics going down.
    “The gas,” Delacroix said. “And I hardly used any of it. I don’t go anywhere but back and forth from the range. I have a restricted license because of my DUI.”
    “The gas?” Edgar asked. “What are-”
    “Mr. Delacroix, we’re not here about you stealing gas,” Bosch said.
    He picked up one of the videotapes off the stack on the television. There was tape on the spine with writing on it. First Infantry, episode 46. He put it back down and glanced at the writing on some of the other tapes. They were all episodes of the television show Delacroix had worked on as an actor more than thirty years before.
    “That’s not really our gig,” he added, without looking at Delacroix.
    “Then what? What do you want?”
    Now Bosch looked at him.
    “We’re here about your son.”
    Delacroix stared at him for a long moment, his mouth slowly coming open and exposing his yellowed teeth.
    “Arthur,” he finally