The Wrong Side of Goodbye(20)

“She had the baby,” he whispered. “And they took it away from her.”





8

Bosch looked over at the counter. Flora was looking at him strangely.

“Harry, you okay?” she asked.

He got up without answering and came to the counter.

“Flora, I need birth records for the first two months of 1951,” he said.

“Okay,” she said. “What name?”

“I’m not sure. Duarte or Vance. I’m not sure how it would be listed. Give me your pen and I’ll write it down.”

“Okay.”

“The hospital will be St. Helen’s. In fact, I want to look at all births at St. Helen’s the first two—”

“No, no St. Helen Hospital in L.A. County.”

“It’s not exactly a hospital. It’s for unwed mothers.”

“No record here, then.”

“What are you talking about? There has to be a—”

“Records secret. When a baby is born, get adopted. New certificate come in and no mention of St. Helen. You see?”

Bosch wasn’t sure if he was tracking what she was trying to tell him. He knew there were all kinds of privacy laws protecting adoption records.

“You’re saying they don’t file the birth certificate until after the adoption?” he asked.

“Exactly,” Flora said.

“And it only has the names of the new parents on it?”

“Uh-huh. True.”

“And the baby’s new name?”

Flora nodded.

“What about the hospital? They lie about that?”

“They say home birth.”

In frustration Bosch slapped his hands down flat on the counter.

“So there is no way I can find out who her child was?”

“I’m sorry, Harry. Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, Flora. At least not at you.”

“You good detective, Harry Bosch. You figure it out.”

“Yeah, Flora. I’ll figure it out.”

Hands still on the counter, Bosch leaned down and tried to think. There had to be a way to find the child. He thought about going to St. Helen’s. It might be his only shot. He then thought of something else and looked back up at Flora.

“Harry, I never see you this way,” she said.

“I know, Flora,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t like dead ends. Can you bring me the reels with births in January and February 1951, please?”

“You sure? You got a lot a births in two month.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay, then.”

Flora disappeared again and Bosch went back to the microfilm cubicle to wait. Checking his watch, he realized that it was likely he would be looking through microfilm until the office closed at 5:00. He would then face a brutal rush-hour drive through the heart of downtown and up into Hollywood to get home, a slog that could take two hours. Since he was closer to Orange County than home, he decided to text his daughter on the off chance she’d have time for dinner away from the Chapman University student cafeteria.

Mads, I’m in Norwalk on a case. I could come down for dinner if you have time.

She texted back right away.



Where is Norwalk?



Down near you. I could pick you up at 5:30 and have you back doing homework by 7. What do you say?



Her decision did not come quickly and he knew she was probably weighing her options. She was in her second year, and social and school demands on her time had grown exponentially from the previous year, resulting in Bosch seeing her less and less. It was a development that occasionally left him feeling sad and alone, but delighted for her at most other times. He knew that this would be one of the nights he would feel gloomy if he didn’t get to see her. The story of Vibiana Duarte, what little he knew of it, depressed him. She had been just a few years younger than his own daughter and what happened to her was a reminder that life is not always fair—even to the innocent.

While he was waiting for his daughter’s decision Flora came out with two reels of microfilm for him. He put his phone down on the table next to the machine and spooled the reel marked January 1951. He started wading through hundreds of birth records, checking the hospital line on each and printing out every certificate recorded as a home birth.

Ninety minutes later Bosch stopped at February 20, 1951, having extended his search a week past Vibiana’s death to account for the delay in the filing of a birth certificate under the names of the new parents. He had printed out sixty-seven birth certificates in which there was a home birth and the child’s race was listed as either Latino or white. He had no photo of Vibiana Duarte and he did not know how dark or light her complexion had been. He could not rule out the possibility that her baby was adopted as white, even if just to match the race of the adoptive parents.

As he squared up the stack of printouts he realized he had forgotten about dinner with his daughter. He grabbed his phone and saw that he had missed her final text on his offer. It had come in more than an hour earlier and she had accepted, as long as they were finished eating and she was back studying by 7:30. This year she was sharing a house with three other girls a few blocks from campus. Bosch checked his watch and saw he’d been correct in predicting he would finish up as the records office was closing. He shot a quick text to Maddie saying he was heading her way.