Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (81)

“I don’t care. Go somewhere else with your damn search warrant.”

“Doesn’t work that way. If you don’t open the door, I’m going to kick it in.”

“Sure, an old man like you. Go ahead and try. I’ve got the dead bolt on.”

“I’ve been kicking in doors for forty years, Sheila. It’s not about strength. It’s about the placement of the pressure. One of the first things they teach you. You hit the right spot and the lock itself breaks the jamb. It will then cost you three or four hundred dollars to fix it—and you have to figure out a way to secure your house till you get somebody out to do it. Nobody ever thinks about that. They don’t show that part on the TV shows.”

A long moment of silence went by.

Bosch stepped back as he would have if he were going to kick the door in. There was a peephole and he believed she was watching him.

“Stand back,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

At the moment he would have raised his leg and reared back to kick, Walsh’s voice came through again.

“Okay, okay! Don’t kick my door in.”

He waited and heard the locks turn. The door finally opened and Sheila Walsh stood there, pure hatred in her eyes.

“Smart decision,” Bosch said.

“What do you want?” Walsh asked.

“To be honest, I would rather just talk to you than have to search your house. That would take the rest of the day, when we probably could clear this up with a simple conversation.”

She didn’t move.

“A conversation about what?” she asked.

“Do you want to do this out here in front of your neighbors?” Bosch asked. “Or can we sit down inside?”

She stepped back and let him in. Bosch had not lied to her. He did, in fact, have a search warrant, but it was a copy of a warrant from another case and signed years earlier by a judge who was long retired now.

“In here,” Walsh said.

She led him to the dining area instead of the kitchen this time. An open laptop and paperwork were spread on the table. On the wall to the left of it, several unfolded pamphlets and flyers were taped to the sky-blue paint. Bosch saw maps of what looked like the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico as well as photos of cruise ships, floor plans of state rooms, and schematics for entire decks. The dining room was the headquarters of her online travel agency.

“Before I say another word, I want to hear you say you will leave my son alone,” she said. “He’s been through enough and he has nothing to do with this.”

“I can’t make that promise,” Bosch said. “Four people are dead, Sheila. A whole family. And I’m going to find the man who did it. If I have to use your son to get there, I will. It’s as simple as that. But it’s you who controls this. You cooperate, and there will be no need for me to put pressure on your son or tell his employers about his involvement in this.”

“That isn’t right. He isn’t involved!”

“You think it was right that the whole Gallagher family was buried in a hole out in the desert?”

“Of course not. But I had nothing to do with it! You don’t think I feel the horror of that? I do. I think about it every single day.”

“What did Finbar want?”

Her head rocked back in surprise at Bosch’s directness.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Come on, Sheila,” Bosch said. “You know what I’m talking about. Your son was the one who broke in and stole from you. You got lucky when they found McShane’s print and you could lay it on him. But it was your son, not him. McShane was here at some point before the break-in and I want to know why.”

“You’re crazy. You won’t let this go, and this is harassment. I could file a complaint against you.”

“You could. But if you think this is harassment, you haven’t seen anything yet. I’m never going to stop coming here. Not until you tell me what you know.”

She shook her head and then put her elbows on the table and her face in her hands.

“Oh my god, what am I going to do?” she said. “You won’t fucking stop.”

Bosch pulled the paper clip off the documents he had brought. They were folded lengthwise. He thumbed off the last page and slid it across the table to her.

“Open your eyes, Sheila, and take a look at that,” Bosch said. “I think it will help you do the right thing here.”

She dropped her hands to the table.

“The right thing?” she protested. “What are you talking about?”

“Just look at it,” Bosch said.

She pinned the paper to the table with her thumbs and leaned over it to read. Soon she started shaking her head.

“Help me,” she said. “What is this?”

“It’s a copy of a page from the California penal code,” Bosch said. “P-C thirty-two—it deals with the crime of aiding and abetting murder.”

“What?”

It was a shriek more than a question.

“Oh my god,” she followed. “What are you—”

“Look at the last line,” Bosch said. “Read it.”

“I read it. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what you want.”