I'm sure my husband spoke of you—I think it was when they sent you out to Hollywood Division. Couple years ago. He said before that one of the studios had paid you a lot of money to use your name and do a TV movie about a case. He said you bought one of those houses on stilts up in the hills."
Bosch nodded reluctantly and changed the subject.
"I don't know what the reporters told you, Mrs. Moore, but I have been sent out to tell you that it appears your husband has been found and he is dead. I am sorry to have had to tell you this. I—"
"I knew and you knew and every cop in town knew it would come to this. I didn't talk to the reporters. I didn't need to. I told them no comment. When that many of them come to your house on Christmas night, you know it's because of bad news."
He nodded and looked down at the imaginary hat in his hands.
"So, are you going to tell me? Was it an official suicide? Did he use a gun?"
Bosch nodded and said, "It looks like it but nothing is definite un—"
"Until the autopsy. I know, I know. I'm a cop's wife. Was, I mean. I know what you can say and can't say. You people can't even be straight with me. Until then there are always secrets to keep to yourselves."
He saw the hard edge enter her eyes, the anger.
"That's not true, Mrs. Moore. I'm just trying to soften the im—"
"Detective Bosch, if you want to tell me something, just tell me."
"Yes, Mrs. Moore, it was with a gun. If you want the details, I can give you the details. Your husband, if it was your husband, took his face off with a shotgun. Gone completely. So, we have to make sure it was him and we have to make sure he did it himself, before we can say anything for sure. We are not trying to keep secrets. We just don't have all the answers yet."
She leaned back in her chair, away from light. In the veil of shadows Bosch saw the look on her face. The hardness and anger in her eyes had softened. Her shoulders seemed to untighten. He felt ashamed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know why I told you that. I should have just—"
"That's okay. I guess I deserved it. . . . I apologize, too."
She looked at him then without anger in her eyes. He had broken through the shell. He could see that she needed to be with someone. The house was too big and too dark to be alone in right now. All the Christmas trees and book reports in the world couldn't change that. But there was more than that making Bosch want to stay. He found that he was instinctively attracted to her. For Bosch it had never been an attraction of an opposite but the reverse of that myth. He had always seen something of himself in the women who attracted him. Why it was this way, he never understood. It was just there. And now this woman whose name he didn't even know was there and he was being drawn to her. Maybe it was a reflection of himself and his own needs, but it was there and he had seen it. It hooked him and made him want to know what had etched the circles beneath such sharp eyes. Like himself, he knew, she carried her scars on the inside, buried deep, each one a mystery. She was like him. He knew.
"I'm sorry but I don't know your name. The deputy chief just gave me the address and said go."
She smiled at his predicament.
"It's Sylvia."
He nodded.
"Sylvia. Um, is that coffee I smell by any chance?"
"Yes. Would you like a cup?"
"That would be great, if it's not too much trouble."
"Not at all."
She got up and as she passed in front of him so did his doubts.
"Listen, I'm sorry. Maybe I should go. You have a lot to think about and I'm intruding here. I've—"
"Please stay. I could use the company."
She didn't wait for an answer. The fire made a popping sound as the flames found the last pocket of air. He watched her head toward the kitchen. He waited a beat, took another look around the room and stood up and headed toward the lighted doorway of the kitchen.