“I knew what he was bringing in, because I had seen the purchase orders and I made some calls to our customers to find out what he was selling things for. I told him I knew what he was up to and that I had added it all up and wanted half. Four hundred thousand or he’d go to jail. He gave it to me.”

Bosch said nothing, hoping his silence would keep her talking.

“But then … they were found,” she said. “Up there in the Mojave. And Fin had disappeared. I knew how it would look. Like I had been part of it. I couldn’t tell you what I knew. I couldn’t tell anybody, because I looked guilty.”

Bosch nodded as part of the story fell together after so many years. He thought about Sheila mentioning the arc of the moral universe when he’d been here last. He wondered if she knew then that the arc was bending toward her.

“You said he came back here for money,” Bosch said. “How much did you give him?”

“All four hundred thousand,” Sheila said. “Every cent. I never touched it. I couldn’t after I knew what he did.”

“When exactly did this visit occur? How long before the burglary you reported?”

“A few weeks. Maybe a month.”

“You said a few minutes ago that he threatened you. Exactly how did he threaten you?”

“He said to give him the money, or my son would get a hot shot, and the next time I’d see him, he’d be on a slab at the coroner’s office. He said he’d then tip the police about the money and I would be arrested. I didn’t know about any statute of limits or whatever it’s called. But my son—back then, he needed me. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Bosch nodded and stayed silent.

“But he didn’t have to threaten me,” Walsh said. “Or my son. I didn’t want the money. Not after Mojave.”

Bosch nodded again but this time he spoke.

“Why did you call the police after the burglary?” he asked. “You knew your son did it.”

“I didn’t!” she said. “I had no idea. You think I would call the police on my own son? I didn’t know until Jonathan told me. When he found out I had called the police, he told me and said I had to protect him. When they called and asked about McShane and his prints, I knew how to do it. Just say it was McShane.”

“Where is he, Sheila?”

“My son? You know where—”

“No, McShane. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. How would I know?”

“Are you saying you had four hundred thousand dollars in cash under your mattress and you just gave it to him and he left? There had to have been some kind of transfer.”