Angle of Investigation: Three Harry Bosch Short Stories by Michael Connelly Read Free Book Online Page A

chathings.”
    “It did.”
    “So when Arlene was pregnant, couldn’t the doctors tell that he had these problems?”
    “They could have if they had seen him. But Arlene’s a workaholic. She was busy all the time. She missed some appointments and the ultrasounds. When they discovered there was a problem it was too late.”
    “Do you blame your wife for that?”
    Helton looked aghast.
    “No, of course not. Look, what does this have to do with what happened today? I mean, why are you asking me all of this?”
    Bosch leaned across the table.
    “It may have a lot to do with it, Stephen. I am trying to determine what happened today and why. The why is the tough part.”
    “It was an accident! I forgot he was in the car, okay? I will go to my grave knowing that my mistake killed my own son. Isn’t that enough for you?”
    Bosch leaned back and said nothing. He hoped Helton would say more.
    “Do you have a son, Detective? Any children?”
    “A daughter.”
    “Yeah, well, then happy Father’s Day. I’m really glad for you. I hope you never have to go through what I’m going through right now. Believe me, it’s not fun!”
    Bosch had forgotten it was Father’s Day. The realization knocked him off his rhythm and his thoughts went to his daughter living eight thousand miles away. In her ten years he had only been with her on one Father’s Day. What did that say about him? Here he was trying to get inside another father’s actions and motivations and he knew his own could not stand equal scrutiny.
    The moment ended when there was a knock on the door and Ferras came in carrying a file.
    “Excuse me,” he said. “I thought you might want to see this.”
    He handed the file to Bosch and left the room. Bosch turned the file on the table in front of them and opened it so that Helton would not be able to see its contents. Inside was a computer printout and a handwritten note on a Post-it.
    The note said: “No ad on Craigslist.”
    The printout was of a story that ran in the L.A. Times ten months earlier. It was about the heatstroke death of a child who had been left in a car in Lancaster while his mother ran into a store to buy milk. She ran into the middle of a robbery. She was tied up along with the store clerk and placed in a back room. The robbers ransacked the stotoucked thre and escaped. It was an hour before the victims were discovered and freed but by then the child in the car had already succumbed to heatstroke. Bosch scanned the story quickly then dropped the file closed. He looked at Helton without speaking.
    “What?” Helton asked.
    “Just some additional information and lab reports,” he lied. “Do you get the L.A. Times, by the way?”
    “Yes, why?”
    “Just curious, that’s all. Now, how many nannies do you think you’ve employed in the fifteen months that William was alive?”
    Helton shook his head.
    “I don’t know. At least ten. They don’t stay long. They can’t take it.”
    “And then you go to Craigslist to place an ad?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you just lost a nanny on Friday?”
    “Yes, I told you.”
    “She just walked out on you?”
    “No, she got another job and told us she was leaving. She made up a lie about it being closer to home and with gas prices and all of that. But we knew why she was leaving. She could not handle Willy.”
    “She told you this Friday?”
    “No, when she gave notice.”
    “When was that?”
    “She gave two weeks’ notice, so it was two weeks back from Friday.”
    “And do you have a new nanny lined up?”
    “No, not yet. We were still looking.”
    “But you put the feelers out and ran the ad again, that sort of thing?”
    “Right, but listen, what does this have to—”
    “Let me ask the questions, Stephen. Your wife told us that she worried about leaving William with you, that you couldn’t handle the strain of it.”
    Helton looked shocked. The statement came from left field, as Bosch had wanted it.
    “What? Why would she say