“During Michael Harris’s trial. You see I believed he did it — Harris. I mean, I just didn’t believe that the police would plant fingerprints. Even the prosecutor assured me that it was unlikely that it could be done. So I believed in the case. I wanted to believe. But then during the trial one of the detectives, I think it was Frank Sheehan, was testifying and he said they arrested Michael Harris at the place where he worked.”

“The car wash.”

“Right. He gave the address and the name of the place. And it hit me then. I remembered going to that same car wash with Stacey. I remembered her books were in the car. I told my husband and said we should tell Jim Camp. He was the prosecutor. But Sam talked me out of it. He said the police were sure and he was sure that Michael Harris was the killer. He said if I raised the question the defense would find out and use the information to twist the case. Like with the O.J. case, the truth meant nothing. We’d lose the case. He reminded me that Stacey was found right near Harris’s apartment . . . He said he probably saw her with me at the car wash that day and started to stalk us — stalk her. He convinced me . . . and I let it go. I still wasn’t sure it wasn’t Harris. I did what my husband told me.”

“And Harris got off.”

“Yes.”

Bosch paused for a moment, believing the break was needed before the next question.

“What changed, Mrs. Kincaid?” he finally asked. “What made you send those notes to Howard Elias?”

“My suspicions were never far away. Then one day, a few months ago, I overheard part of a conversation my husband was having with his . . . his friend.”

She said the last word as if it was the worst thing you could ever say about anybody.

“Richter?”

“Yes. They thought I wasn’t home and I wasn’t supposed to be. I was supposed to be at lunch with my girlfriends at the club. Mountaingate. Only I stopped going to lunches with my girlfriends after Stacey . . . well, you know, lunches and that sort of thing didn’t interest me anymore. So I would tell my husband I was going to lunch but instead I’d go visit Stacey. At the cemetery . . .”

“Okay. I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you could understand, Detective Bosch.”

Bosch nodded.

“I’m sorry. You’re probably right. Go on, Mrs. Kincaid.”