He put the boots back and made a mental note of it for the search warrant. His current search was just a cursory look around. If they moved to the next step with Trent and he became a full-fledged suspect, then they would come back with a search warrant and literally tear the place apart looking for evidence tying him to the bones. The work boots might be a good place to start. He was already on tape saying he had never been up on that hillside. If the dirt in the treads matched the soil samples from the excavation, then they’d have Trent caught in a lie. Most of what sparring with suspects was about was the locking in of a story. It was then that the investigator looked for the lies.
There was nothing else in the closet that warranted Bosch’s attention. Same with the bedroom or the attached bathroom. Bosch, of course, knew that if Trent was the killer, he’d had many years to cover his tracks. He would also have had the last three days—since Edgar first questioned him during the canvas—to double-check his trail and be ready.
The other bedroom was used as an office and a storage room for his work. On the walls hung framed one sheets advertising the films Bosch assumed Trent had worked on. Bosch had seen some of them on television but rarely went to theaters to see movies. He noticed that one of the frames held the one sheet for a film called The Art of the Cape. Years before, Bosch had investigated the murder of that film’s producer. He had heard that after that, the one sheets from the movie had become collector items in underground Hollywood.
When he was finished looking around the rear of the house, Bosch went through a kitchen door into the garage. There were two bays, one containing Trent’s minivan. The other was stacked with boxes with markings on them corresponding to rooms in a house. At first Bosch was shocked at the thought that Trent had still not completely unpacked after moving in nearly twenty years before. Then he realized the boxes were work related and used in the process of set decoration.
When he turned around he was looking at an entire wall hung with the heads of wild game, their black marble eyes staring at him. Bosch felt a nerve tickle run down his spine. All of his life he had hated seeing things like that. He wasn’t sure why.
He spent another few minutes in the garage, mostly going through a box in the stack that was marked “boy’s room 9–12.” It contained toys, airplane models, a skateboard, and a football. He took the skateboard out for a few moments and studied it, all the while thinking about the shirt from the backpack with “Solid Surf” printed on it. After a while he put the skateboard back in the box and closed it.
There was a side door to the garage that led to a path that went to the backyard. A pool took up most of the level ground before the yard rose into the steep, wooded hillside. It was too dark to see much and Bosch decided he would have to do the exterior look during daylight hours.
Twenty minutes after he left to begin the search Bosch returned to the living room empty-handed. Trent looked up at him expectantly.
“Satisfied?”
“I’m satisfied for now, Mr. Trent. I appreciate your—”
“You see? It never ends. ‘Satisfied for now.’ You people will never let it go, will you? I mean, if I was a drug dealer or a bank robber, my debt would be cleared and you people would leave me alone. But because I touched a boy almost forty years ago I am guilty for life.”
“I think you did more than touch him,” Edgar said. “But we’ll get the records. Don’t worry.”
Trent put his face in his hands and mumbled something about it being a mistake to have cooperated. Bosch looked at Edgar, who nodded that he was finished and ready to go. Bosch stepped over and picked up his recorder. He slid it into the breast pocket of his jacket but didn’t turn it off. He’d learned a valuable lesson on a case the year before—sometimes the most important and telling things are said after an interview is supposedly over.
“Mr. Trent, thank you for your cooperation. We’re going to go. But we might need to talk to you tomorrow. Are you working tomorrow?”
“God, no, don’t call me at work! I need this job and you’ll ruin it. You’ll ruin everything.”
He gave Bosch his pager number. Bosch wrote it down and headed toward the front door. He looked back at Edgar.
“Did you ask him about trips? He’s not planning to go anywhere, is he?”
Edgar looked at Trent.
“Mr. Trent, you work on movies, you know how the dialogue goes. You call us if you plan to go out of town. If you don’t and we have to find you . . . you’re not going to like it very much.”
Trent spoke in a flat-line monotone, his eyes focused forward, somewhere far away.
“I’m not going anywhere at all. Now please leave. Just leave me alone.”
They walked out the door and Trent closed it hard behind them. At the bottom of the driveway was a large bougainvillea bush in full bloom. It blocked Bosch’s view of the left side of the street until he got there.
A bright light suddenly flashed on and in Bosch’s face. A reporter with a cameraman in tow moved in on the two detectives. Bosch was blinded for a few moments until his eyes started to adjust.
“Hi, detectives. Judy Surtain, Channel Four news. Is there a break in the bones case?”
“No comment,” Edgar barked. “No comment and turn that damn light off.”
Bosch finally saw her in the glare of the light. He recognized her from TV and from the gathering at the roadblock earlier in the week. He also recognized that a “no comment” was not the way to leave this situation. He needed to diffuse it and keep the media away from Trent.
“No,” he said. “No breakthrough. We’re just following routine procedures.”
Surtain shoved the microphone she was carrying toward Bosch’s face.
“Why are you out here in the neighborhood again?”
“We’re just finishing the routine canvas of the residents here. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to the resident here before. We just finished up, that’s all.”
He was talking with a bored tone in his voice. He hoped she was buying it.
“Sorry,” he added. “No big story tonight.”
“Well, was this neighbor or any of the neighbors helpful to the investigation?”
“Well, everyone here has been very cooperative with us but as far as investigative leads go it has been difficult. Most of these people weren’t even living in the neighborhood when the bones were buried. That makes it tough.”
Bosch gestured toward Trent’s house.
“This gentleman, for example. We just found out that he didn’t buy his home here until nineteen eighty-seven and we’re pretty sure those bones were already up there by then.”
“So then it’s back to the drawing board?”
“Sort of. And that’s really all I can tell you. Good night.”
He pushed past her toward his car. A few moments later Surtain was on him at the car door. Without her cameraman.
“Detective, we need to get your name.”
Bosch opened his wallet and took out a business card. The one with the general station number printed on it. He gave it to her and said good night again.
“Look, if there is anything you can tell me, you know, off the record, I would protect you,” Surtain said. “You know, off camera like this, whatever you want to do.”
“No, there is nothing,” Bosch said as he opened the door. “Have a good night.”
Edgar cursed the moment the doors of the car were closed.
“How the hell did she know we were here?”
“Probably a neighbor,” Bosch said. “She was out here the whole two days of the dig. She’s a celebrity. She made nice with the residents. Made friends. Plus, we’re sitting in a goddamn Shamu. Might as well have called a press conference.”
Bosch thought of the inanity of trying to do detective work in a car painted black and white. Under a program designed to make cops more visible on the street, the department had assigned detectives in the divisions to black-and-whites that didn’t carry the emergency lights on top but were jus
t as noticeable.
They watched as the reporter and her cameraman went to Trent’s door.
“She’s going to try to talk to him,” Edgar said.
Bosch quickly went into his briefcase and got out his cell phone. He was about to dial Trent’s number and tell him not to answer when he realized he couldn’t get a cell signal.
“Goddammit,” he said.
“Too late anyway,” Edgar said. “Let’s just hope he plays it smart.”
Bosch could see Trent at his front door, totally bathed in the white light from the camera. He said a few words and then made a waving gesture and closed the door.
“Good,” Edgar said.
Bosch started the car, turned it around and headed back through the canyon to the station.
“So what’s next?” Edgar asked.
“We have to pull the records on his conviction, see what it was about.”
“I’ll do that first thing.”
“No. First thing I want to deliver the search warrants to the hospitals. Whether Trent fits our picture or not, we need to ID the kid in order to connect him to Trent. Let’s meet at Van Nuys Courthouse at eight. We get them signed and then split ’em up.”
Bosch had picked Van Nuys court because Edgar lived nearby and they could separate and go from there in the morning after the warrants had been approved by a judge.
“What about a warrant on Trent’s place?” Edgar said. “You see anything while you were looking around?”
“Not much. He’s got a skateboard in a box in the garage. You know, with his work stuff. For putting on a set. I was thinking of our victim’s shirt when I saw that. And there were some work boots with dirt in the treads. It might match the samples from the hill. But I’m not counting on a search coming through for us. The guy has had twenty years to make sure he’s clear. If he’s the guy.”
“You don’t think so?”
Bosch shook his head.
“Timing’s wrong. ’Eighty-four is on the late side. The far edge of our window.”
“I thought we were looking at ’seventy-five to ’eighty-five.”
“We are. In general. But you heard Golliher—twenty to twenty-five years ago. That’s early eighties on the high side. I don’t know about ’eighty-four being early eighties.”
“Well, maybe he moved to that house because of the body. He buried the kid there before and wanted to be close by so he moves into the neighborhood. I mean, Harry, these are sick fucks, these guys.”
Bosch nodded.
“There’s that. But I just wasn’t getting the vibe from the guy. I believed him.”
“Harry, your mojo’s been wrong before.”
“Oh, yeah . . .”
“I think it’s him. He’s the guy. Hear how he said, ‘just because I touched a boy.’ Probably to him, sodomizing a nine-year-old is reaching out and touching somebody.”
Edgar was being reactionary but Bosch didn’t call him on it. He was a father; Bosch wasn’t.
“We’ll get the records and we’ll see. We also have to go to the Hall to check the reverses, see who was on that street back then.”
The reverses were phone books that listed residents by address instead of by name. A collection of the books for every year was kept in the Hall of Records. They would allow the detectives to determine who was living on the street during the 1975 to 1985 range they were looking at as the boy’s time of death.
“That’s going to be a lot of fun,” Edgar said.
“Oh, yeah,” Bosch said. “I can’t wait.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way. Bosch became depressed. He was disappointed with himself for how he had run the investigation so far. The bones were discovered Wednesday, and the full investigation took off on Thursday. He knew he should have run the names—a basic part of the investigation—sooner than Sunday. By delaying it he had given Trent the advantage. He’d had three days to expect and prepare for their questions. He had even been briefed by an attorney. He could have even been practicing his responses and looks in a mirror. Bosch knew what his internal lie detector said. But he also knew that a good actor could beat it.
15
BOSCH drank a beer on the back porch with the sliding door open so he could hear Clifford Brown on the stereo. Almost fifty years before, the trumpet player made a handful of recordings and then checked out in a car crash. Bosch thought about all the music that had been lost. He thought about young bones in the ground and what had been lost. And then he thought about himself and what he had lost. Somehow the jazz and the beer and the grayness he was feeling about the case had all mixed together in his mind. He felt on edge, like he was missing something that was right in front of him. For a detective it was just about the worst feeling in the world.
At 11 P.M. he came inside and turned the music down so he could watch the news on Channel 4. Judy Surtain’s report was the third story after the first break. The anchor said, “New developments in the Laurel Canyon bone case. We go to Judy Surtain at the scene.”
“Ah, shit,” Bosch said, not liking the sound of the introduction.
The program cut to a live shot of Surtain on Wonderland Avenue
, standing on the street in front of a house Bosch recognized as Trent’s.
“I’m here on Wonderland Avenue
in Laurel Canyon, where four days ago a dog brought home a bone that authorities say was human. The dog’s find led to the discovery of more bones belonging to a young boy who investigators believe was murdered and then buried more than twenty years ago.”
Bosch’s phone started ringing. He picked it up off the arm of the TV chair and answered it.
“Hold on,” he said and then held the phone down by his side while he watched the news report.
Surtain said, “Tonight the lead investigators on the case returned to the neighborhood to speak to one resident who lives less than one hundred yards from the place where the boy was buried. That resident is Nicholas Trent, a fifty-seven-year-old Hollywood set decorator.”
The program cut to tape of Bosch being questioned by Surtain that night. But it was used as visual filler while Surtain continued her report in a voice-over dub.
“Investigators declined to comment on their questioning of Trent, but Channel Four news has learned—”
Bosch sat down heavily on the chair and braced himself.
“—that Trent was once convicted of molesting a young boy.”
The sound was then brought up on the street interview just as Bosch said, “That’s really all I can tell you.”
The next jump was to video of Trent standing in his doorway and waving the camera off and closing the door.
“Trent declined comment on his status in the case. But neighbors in the normally quiet hillside neighborhood expressed shock upon learning of Trent’s background.”
As the report shifted to a taped interview of a resident Bosch recognized as Victor Ulrich, Bosch hit the mute button on the TV remote and brought the phone up. It was Edgar.
“You watching this shit?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“We look like shit. We look like we told her. They used your quote out of context, Harry. We’re going to be fucked by this.”
“Well, you didn’t tell her, right?”
“Harry, you think I’d tell some—”
“No, I don’t. I was confirming. You didn’t tell her, right?”
“Right.”
“And neither did I. So, yeah, we’re going to take some shit but we’re clear on it.”
“Well, who else knew? I doubt Trent was the one who told her. About a million people now know he’s a child molester.”
Bosch realized the only people who knew were Kiz, who had gotten the records flag while doing the computer work, and Julia Brasher, whom Bosch told while he was making his excuse for missing dinner. Suddenly a vision of Surtain standing at the roadblock on Wonderland came to him. Brasher had volunteered her help during both days of the hillside search and excavation
. It was entirely possible that she had connected with Surtain in some way. Was she the reporter’s source, the leak?
“There didn’t have to be a leak,” Bosch said to Edgar. “All she needed was Trent’s name. She could have gotten any cop she knew to run it on the box for her. Or she could have looked it up on the sexual offenders CD. It’s public record. Hold on.”
He had gotten a call-waiting beep on the phone. He switched over and learned it was Lt. Billets calling. He told her to hold while he got off the other line. He clicked over.
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