The Drop

be nurtured. No doubt that is what happened with Clayton Pell. But for every Pell who acts out and damages somebody, there is someone who has had the exact same childhood who never acts out and never hurts anybody. So there is something else. Another part to the equation. Are people born with something that lies dormant and comes to the surface only under certain circumstances? I don’t know, Hannah. I really don’t. And I don’t think anybody else does either. Not for sure. We only have theories, and none of it really matters in the long run because it is not going to stop the damage.”
    “You mean my work is useless?”
    “No, but your work—like mine—comes into play after the damage is done. Sure, your efforts will hopefully prevent a lot of these people from going out and doing it again. I do believe that and I told you so the other night. But how is it going to identify and stop the individual who has never acted out or broken a law or done anything before that warns of what’s to come? Why are we even talking about this, Hannah? Tell me what you’re not telling me.”
    The waiter came back with the coffee. Hannah told him to bring their check. Bosch took this as a bad sign. She wanted to get away from him. She wanted to go.
    “So that’s it. We get the check and you run away without answering the question?”
    “No, Harry, that’s not it. I asked for the check because I want you to take me home with you now. But there is something you need to know about me first.”
    “Then tell me.”
    “I have a son, Harry.”
    “I know. You said he’s up in the Bay Area.”
    “Yes, I go up there to visit him in prison. He’s in San Quentin.”
    Bosch couldn’t say he hadn’t expected a secret like this. But he hadn’t expected it to be her son. Maybe a former husband or partner. But not her son.
    “I’m sorry, Hannah.”
    It was all he could think to say. She shook her head as if to ward off his sympathy.
    “He did something terrible,” she said. “Something evil. And to this day I can’t fathom where it came from or why.”
    Holding the bottle of wine under his arm, Bosch unlocked the front door and held it open for her. He was acting calm but he wasn’t. They had talked about her son for almost another hour. Bosch had mostly listened. But in the end all he could do was once more offer her sympathy. Are parents responsible for the sins of their children? Often yes but not always. She was the therapist. She knew that better than he.
    He hit the light switch next to the door.
    “Why don’t we have a glass on the back deck?” he said.
    “That sounds lovely,” she said.
    He walked her through the living room to the sliding door to the deck.
    “This is a great place, Harry. How long have you lived here?”
    “I guess it’s almost twenty-five years. It just hasn’t seemed that long. I rebuilt it once. After the earthquake in ’ninety-four.”
    They were greeted by the hissing sound of the freeway from down at the bottom of the pass. In their exposed position on the deck, the wind was crisp. Hannah walked right out to the rail and took in the view.
    “Wow.”
    She made a full turn, her eyes toward the sky.
    “Where’s the moon?”
    Bosch pointed toward Mount Lee.
    “It must be behind the mountain.”
    “I hope it comes out.”
    Bosch held the bottle up by its neck. It was what was left from the restaurant, brought along because he knew he had nothing at home. He had stopped drinking at home since Maddie had started living with him, and he rarely imbibed when out.
    “I’m going to turn on some music and get a couple glasses. I’ll be right back.”
    Back inside, he turned on the DVD player but wasn’t sure what was in the slot. Soon he heard Frank Morgan’s saxophone and he knew all was good. He quickly moved down the hallway and did a quick cleanup of his bedroom and bathroom, grabbing fresh sheets from the closet and making the bed. He then went into the kitchen and grabbed two wineglasses before returning to the deck.
    “I was wondering what happened to you,” Hannah said.
    “I had to straighten up at least a little bit,” he said.
    Bosch poured the wine. They touched glasses and sipped and then Hannah moved close to him and they kissed for the first time. They held it until Hannah broke away from him.
    “I’m sorry to have put you through all of that, Harry. My soap opera.”
    Bosch shook his head.
    “It’s not a soap opera. He’s your son. Our children are our