“On Sunday night, when George went out, what did he say to you?”
“As I told you before, he said he was going out for a drive. That’s all. He didn’t tell me where.”
“Did he threaten to kill himself during any of your discussions in the week prior to his death?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. I’m not lying to you.”
“You said you talked about it for several nights. He did not accept your decision?”
“Of course not. He said he wouldn’t let me go. I told him he didn’t have a choice. I was leaving. I was prepared. It wasn’t a rash decision. I’ve been in a loveless marriage for quite a long time, Detective. The day Chad got the acceptance letter from USF, that was the day I started planning.”
“Did you have a place you were going to go?”
“A place, a car, a job—everything.”
“Where?”
“San Francisco. Close to Chad.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all of this from the start? What’s the point of hiding it?”
“My son. His father was dead and it wasn’t clear how. He didn’t need to know that his parents’ marriage had been coming to an end. I didn’t want to put that on him.”
Bosch shook his head. She apparently didn’t care that her deception had almost resulted in McQuillen’s being accused of murder.
There was a noise from somewhere in the house and Deborah became alert.
“That’s the back door. Chad is home. Do not tell him this. I beg you.”
“He’s going to find out. I should talk to him. His father must’ve told him something when he told him he needed to fly home.”
“No, he didn’t. I was in the room when he called. He just told him we needed him to come home for a few days because of a family emergency. George assured him that everybody was fine healthwise but that he needed to come home. Do not tell him about this. I will tell him.”
“Mom?”
It was Chad calling from somewhere in the house.
“In the living room, Chad,” his mother called back.
Then she looked at Bosch with beseeching eyes.
“Please,” she whispered.
Chad Irving entered the living room. He was dressed in blue jeans and a golf shirt. His hair was unkempt and it looked startlingly different from the carefully combed look he’d had at the funeral.
“Chad,” Bosch said. “How are you doing?”
The boy nodded.
“Fine. What are you doing here? Did you arrest someone for killing my father?”
“No, Chad,” his mother said quickly. “Detective Bosch was just doing some follow-up on your father. I had to answer a few questions about the business. That’s all and, in fact, Detective Bosch was just about to leave.”
The time was rare that Bosch would allow someone to speak for him and lie and even push him out the door. But Bosch played along. He even stood up.
“Yes, I think I have what I need for now. I do want to talk a little more with you, Chad, but that can wait until tomorrow. You are still around tomorrow, right?”
Bosch looked at Deborah the whole time he spoke. The message was clear. If you want to be the one who tells him, then tell him tonight. Otherwise, Bosch would be back in the morning.
“Yes, I’m staying until Sunday.”
Bosch nodded. He moved out of the seating area.
“Mrs. Irving, you have my number. Call me if anything else comes up. I’ll show myself out.”
With that, Bosch headed through the living room and then out of the house. He went off the front walkway and crossed the lawn diagonally to his car.
He received a text as he walked. It was from his daughter, of course. No one else ever texted him.
Going to read in bed. Night, Dad.
He stood next to his car and answered her right away.
On my way home now . . . O?
Her response was quick.
Ocean.
It was a game they played, though a game with a higher purpose. He had taught her the LAPD’s phonetic alphabet and often tested her in texts. Or while out driving together, he’d point out a license plate and have her call it out in phonetic code.
He texted her back.
TMG
That’s my girl.
Once he was in the car, he lowered the window and looked up at the Irving house. The lights had been turned off now in the downstairs rooms. But the family—what was left of it—was still awake upstairs, dealing with the debris George Irving had left behind.
Bosch started his car and headed toward Ventura Boulevard. He opened his phone and called Chu’s cell. He checked the dash clock and saw it was only nine thirty-eight. There was plenty of time. The Times deadline for the morning print edition was eleven.