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“Sheila Walsh has percolated long enough,” Bosch said. “It’s time I go see her.”
“What about Rawls?”
“I figure you’ve got Rawls covered. You’ve got everybody else working it.”
“You’re going to see Walsh by yourself?”
“Yeah, like before. Better that way.”
Bosch opened his door and got in the car. Ballard did the same.
“What if her son is there?”
“Not a problem. He’s scared of me.”
“Probably with good reason.”
44
BOSCH HAD RENTED a car on Tuesday, picking it up at Midway after meeting his daughter for lunch at a vegetarian restaurant on Sunset. He had earlier made an inquiry about his own car at the police garage but was told detectives from the Force Investigation Division had not released it yet. The helpful garage attendant also told him that the car was inoperable because the frame had been bent during the accident that preceded the shooting with Rawls. Despite his claim to Ballard that the old Cherokee was invincible, Bosch now knew that he had most likely driven it for the last time.
He pulled up in the rental in front of Sheila Walsh’s house. If she was on the watch for him, she wouldn’t recognize the car. He sat for a minute collecting his thoughts and deciding how he was going to play this. It had been almost a week since Walsh had called him and angrily told him to stay away from her and her son. Bosch needed to put her in a mindset that told her he would not be going away until she broke and revealed whatever secret she knew about Finbar McShane.
He got out and walked up the stone path to the front door. He knocked sharply, the kind of rap that would hopefullystartle anyone inside. Nothing happened. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out the paper-clipped packet of documents to have them ready.
Raising his fist to hammer on the door again, he heard Sheila Walsh’s voice from the other side.
“Go away. You’re not coming in.”
“Mrs. Walsh … Sheila, open the door. I have a search warrant here.”
“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.
