Page 31 of Resurrection Walk

“He was on the gang team,” Sanz said. “They were his friends. I don’t know their names.”

“He had a tattoo on his hip,” Bosch said. “Below the beltline. Do you know when he got it?”

Sanz shook her head.

“I didn’t know about that,” she said. “He didn’t have tattoos when we were together.”

Since we had not choreographed the interview before getting there, I wasn’t sure why Bosch was trying to determine when Roberto Sanz had gotten the tattoo. I decided I’d wait and ask about it on the drive back to the city.

Bosch then asked another question I hadn’t seen coming.

“Would it be possible for me to talk to Eric?”

“Why?” Sanz responded.

“To see what he remembers about his father,” Bosch said. “And about that night.”

“No,” Sanz said emphatically. “I don’t want that. I don’t want him to be part of this.”

“But he already is, Cindi,” I said. “He was there that night. More important, he was with his father all day before coming home to you. As far as we know, no one ever talked to him about what happened that day. I want to know why his father was two hours late getting him home.”

“He’s thirteen now,” Bosch said. “Maybe he remembers something about that day that will help us. That will help you.”

Sanz pursed her lips as if she were getting ready to dig in her heels on her refusal to give permission. But then she changed course.

“I will ask him,” she said. “If he says yes, then yes, you can talk to him.”

“Good,” I said. “We’ll do our best not to upset him.”

“That will be impossible if you are asking about his father’s death,” Sanz said. “Eric loved his father. My greatest pain is for him to have his mother in prison for killing his father when I know I didn’t do it.”

“I understand,” I said and nodded. I tried to move on. “How often do you and Eric talk?”

“Once or twice each week,” Sanz said. “More if I get phone access.”

“Does he come to visit you?”

“Once a month. He comes with my mother.”

There was a momentary pause as I considered how much this woman had lost whether she was innocent or not. Bosch barged into the silent space, once again without any finesse.

“The gun is not going to show up, is it?” he asked.

Lucinda seemed baffled by the sudden change in direction. I knew that this was a police tactic — ask questions out of sequence or out of context to generate reactions and keep interview subjects from getting too comfortable.

When Lucinda didn’t answer, Bosch pressed.

“The gun used to kill your ex has never turned up,” Bosch said. “It won’t now, will it?”

“I have no idea!” Sanz yelled. “How would I know?”

“I don’t know,” Bosch said. “That’s why I asked. I’m worried that the gun could turn up while we’re in the middle of this and that could cause us and you a lot of problems.”

“I did not kill my husband and I don’t know who did,” Sanz said with a sharp edge to her voice. “And I don’t have the gun.”

She looked fixedly at Bosch until he looked away. One more time I saw the unblinking stare. I was starting to believe her. And that, I knew from experience, was a dangerous place to be.

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