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separate interview rooms in the third-floor offices of Homicide Special. Because it was Sunday the cafeteria was closed and Bosch="0ed and had to make do with the vending machines in the alcove by the elevators. He got a can of Coke and two packages of cheese crackers. He had not eaten breakfast before being called in on the case and was now famished.
    He took his time while eating the crackers and talking things over with Ferras. He wanted both Helton and Haddon to believe that they were waiting while the other spouse was being interviewed. It was a trick of the trade, part of the strategy. Each would have to wonder what the other was saying.
    “Okay,” Bosch finally said. “I’m going to go in and take the husband. You can watch in the booth or you can take a run at the wife. Your choice.”
    It was a big moment. Bosch was more than twenty-five years ahead of Ferras on the job. He was the mentor and Ferras was the student. So far in their fledgling partnership, Bosch had not let Ferras conduct a formal interview. He was allowing that now and the look on Ferras’s face showed that it was not lost on him.
    “You’re going to let me talk to her?”
    “Sure, why not? You can handle it.”
    “All right if I get in the booth and watch you with him first? That way you can watch me.”
    “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
    “Thanks, Harry.”
    “Don’t thank me, Ignacio. Thank yourself. You earned it.”
    Bosch dumped the empty cracker packages and the can in a trash can near his desk.
    “Do me a favor,” he said. “Go on the Internet first and check the L.A. Times to see if they’ve had any stories lately about a case like this. You know, with a kid. I’d be curious, and if there are, we might be able to make a play with the story. Use it like a prop.”
    “I’m on it.”
    “I’ll go set up the video in the booth.”
    Ten minutes later Bosch entered interview room 3, where Stephen Helton was waiting for him. Helton looked like he was not quite thirty years old. He was lean and tan and appeared to be the perfect real estate salesman. He didn’t look like he had ever spent even five minutes in a police station before.
    Immediately he protested.
    “What is taking so long? I’ve just lost my son and you stick me in this room for an hour? Is that procedure?”
    “It hasn’t been that long, Stephen. But I am sorry you had to wait. We were talking to your wife and that went longer than we thought it would.”
    “Why were you talking to her? Willy was with me the whole time.”
    “We talked to her for the same reason we’re talking to you. I’m sorry for the delay.”
    Bosch pulled out the chair that was across the small table from Helton and sat down.
    “First of all,” he said, “thank you for coming in for the interview. You understand that you are not under arrest or anything like that. You are free to go if you wish. But by law we have to conduct an investigation of the death and we appreciate your cooperation.”
    “I just want to get it over with so I can begin the process.”
    “What process is that?”
    “I don’t know. Whatever process you go through. Believe me, I’m new at this. You know, grief and guilt and mourning. Willy wasn’t in our lives very long but we loved him very much. This is just awful. I made a mistake and I am going to pay for it for the rest of my life, Detective Bosch.”
    Bosch almost told him that his son paid for the mistake with the rest of his life but chose not to antagonize the man. Instead, he just nodded and noted that Helton had looked down at his lap when he had spoken most of his statement. Averting the eyes was a classic tell that indicated untruthfulness. Another tell was that Helton had his hands down in his lap and out of sight. The open and truthful person keeps his hands on the table and in sight.
    “Why don’t we start at the beginning,” Bosch said. “Tell me how the day started.”
    Helton nodded and began.
    “Sunday’s our busiest day.