The Drop

fifteen seconds and there was no response.
    Bosch hit the button again and raised his fist to hit the frame when he heard a muffled voice call out from inside.
    “Someone’s in there,” he said.
    Another fifteen seconds went by and then the voice came again, this time clearly from right on the other side of the door.
    “Yeah?”
    “Mr. Hardy?”
    “Yeah, what?”
    “It’s the police. Open your door.”
    “What happened?”
    “We need to ask you some questions. Open the door, please.”
    There was no reply.
    “Mr. Hardy?”
    They heard the sound of the deadbolt lock turning. Slowly the door opened and a man with Coke-bottle-thick glasses peered out at them through a six-inch opening. He was disheveled, his gray hair unkempt and matted, with two weeks of white whiskers sprouted on his face. A clear plastic tube was looped over both ears and then under his nose, delivering oxygen to his nostrils. He wore what looked like a pale blue hospital smock over striped pajama pants and black plastic sandals.
    Bosch tried to open the screen door but it was locked.
    “Mr. Hardy. We need to talk with you, sir. Can we come in?”
    “What is it?”
    “We’re down from the LAPD and we are looking for someone. We think you might be able to help us. Can we come in, sir?”
    “Who?”
    “Sir, we can’t do this out on the street. Can we come in to discuss this?”
    The man’s eyes lowered a moment as he considered things. They were cold and distant. Bosch saw where his son’s eyes had come from.
    Slowly, the old man reached through the opening and unlocked the screen door. Bosch opened it and then waited for Hardy to back away from the front door before pushing through.
    Hardy moved slowly, leaning on a cane as he walked into the living room. Over one bony shoulder he had a strap that supported a small oxygen canister attached to the network of tubes that led to his nose.
    “The place isn’t clean,” he said as he moved toward a chair. “I don’t have visitors.”
    “That’s all right, Mr. Hardy,” Bosch said.
    Hardy slowly lowered himself into a well-used cushioned chair. On the table next to it was an overloaded ashtray. The house smelled of cigarettes and old age and was as unkempt as Hardy’s person. Bosch started to breathe through his mouth. Hardy saw him looking at the ashtray.
    “You’re not going to tell the hospital on me, are you?”
    “No, Mr. Hardy, that’s not why we’re here. My name is Bosch and this is Detective Chu. We are trying to locate your son, Chilton Hardy Junior.”
    Hardy nodded, as if expecting this.
    “I don’t know where he’s at these days. What do you want with him?”
    Bosch sat down on a couch with frayed cushion covers so he would be at Hardy’s eye level.
    “All right if I sit here, Mr. Hardy?”
    “Suit yourself. What’s my boy gone and done that brings you here?”
    Bosch shook his head.
    “As far as we know, nothing. We want to talk to him about somebody else. We are doing a background investigation on a man we believe lived with your son a number of years ago.”
    “Who?”
    “His name is Clayton Pell. Did you ever meet him?”
    “Clayton Powell?”
    “No, sir. Pell. Clayton Pell. Do you know that name?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Hardy leaned forward and started coughing into his hand. His body jerked with spasms.
    “Goddamn cigarettes. What’s this Pell character done, then?”
    “We can’t really reveal the details of our investigation. Suffice it to say we think he’s done some bad things and it would help us in dealing with him if we knew his background. We have a photo we’d like to show you.”
    Chu produced the mug shot of Pell. Hardy studied it for a long time before shaking his head.
    “Don’t recognize him.”
    “Well, that’s him now. He lived with your son about twenty years ago.”
    Hardy now seemed surprised.
    “Twenty years ago? He’d be just a—oh, I know, you’re talking about that boy who lived with Chilton with his mother up there in Hollywood.”
    “Close to Hollywood. Yes, he would’ve been about eight years old back then. You remember him now?”
    Hardy nodded and that made him start to cough again.
    “Do you need some water, Mr. Hardy?”
    Hardy waved the offer away but continued a wheezing cough that left spittle on his lips.
    “Chill came around here with him a couple times. That’s all.”
    “Did he ever talk to you about the boy?”
    “He just said he was a handful. His mother would go off and leave him