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“You said he came back here for money,” Bosch said. “How much did you give him?”
“All four hundred thousand,” Sheila said. “Every cent. I never touched it. I couldn’t after I knew what he did.”
“When exactly did this visit occur? How long before the burglary you reported?”
“A few weeks. Maybe a month.”
“You said a few minutes ago that he threatened you. Exactly how did he threaten you?”
“He said to give him the money, or my son would get a hot shot, and the next time I’d see him, he’d be on a slab at the coroner’s office. He said he’d then tip the police about the money and I would be arrested. I didn’t know about any statute of limits or whatever it’s called. But my son—back then, he needed me. I couldn’t let that happen.”
Bosch nodded and stayed silent.
“But he didn’t have to threaten me,” Walsh said. “Or my son. I didn’t want the money. Not after Mojave.”
Bosch nodded again but this time he spoke.
“Why did you call the police after the burglary?” he asked. “You knew your son did it.”
“I didn’t!” she said. “I had no idea. You think I would call the police on my own son? I didn’t know until Jonathan told me. When he found out I had called the police, he told me and said Ihad to protect him. When they called and asked about McShane and his prints, I knew how to do it. Just say it was McShane.”
“Where is he, Sheila?”
“My son? You know where—”
“No, McShane. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. How would I know?”
“Are you saying you had four hundred thousand dollars in cash under your mattress and you just gave it to him and he left? There had to have been some kind of transfer.”
“It was in Bitcoin. That was how he gave it to me, and that was how I kept it. I transferred it back to him on my laptop right here. And that was when he picked up my paperweight. While he was watching me and showing me how to do it.”
Bosch knew that tracing such a transfer would be almost impossible and would never lead to a physical location.
“What business did he invest in that he lost his half?” he asked. “He had to have told you something.”
“He said, ‘Never invest in a bar,’” Sheila said. “I remember that. That was all.”
“What was the name of the bar?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Where was it?”
“Again, he didn’t say. And I wasn’t really interested in asking. I just wanted him to leave.”
Bosch knew that tracing a bankrupt bar with no name and no location six years or more after the fact would be like trying to trace Bitcoin. Impossible. He now had the fuller story but was no closer to Finbar McShane. He looked down at the old search warrant on the table and started to paper-clip it back together.
“He did say one thing that might help you,” Sheila said.
Bosch’s eyes came up to hers.
“But I want assurances that none of this can ever come back on me or my son,” she said. “And Jonathan can never know what I did.”
She was crying again, this time not trying to hide it with her hands. Bosch nodded.
“The arc of the moral universe bends toward justice, Sheila,” he said. “What did McShane say that can help me?”
