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“He bragged about beating the women in that house so badly, they were unrecognizable,” he continued. “He laughed about them needing closed caskets.”

Sjovald’s eyes now looked both surprised and haunted.

“And if he was telling the truth in this unguarded moment,” Bosch said, “when he didn’t know we were listening, that means you were lying all this time, Mrs. Sjovald. So what we did was, we looked over the statements you gave over the years and found some inconsistencies.”

“What inconsistencies? There are no inconsistencies.”

“Well, I’ll give you one example, even though I really shouldn’t be telling you what we’ve got. When the detectives first came to you about this and you described that night at the hotel, you said you two never left the room and — ”

“We didn’t.”

“And you watched the sunset on the balcony, then went to bed together and didn’t leave until the morning.”

“All true.”

“The detectives back then were able to get the bill from the hotel, and it’s still in the case records. The funny thing is, I don’t think those guys ever went to the hotel to check out room nine-oh-two. Like I did last night.”

“So what? I’m sure the place is different. It’s been forty-five years.”

“I’m sure it is different these days. New paint and carpet. Furniture. A general facelift to keep up with the times. But a couple things couldn’t have changed. Like room nine-oh-two being on the east side of the building. And not having a balcony. There is no balcony, Mrs. Sjovald. And there was no sunset seen from nine-oh-two.”

The realization that the lie she had told for so long had been exposed played out on her face. It was like she aged ten years before Bosch’s eyes.

“You lied, Mrs. Sjovald. You lied for a man who killed four people. I was there that day. I saw what he did to those people. And you helped him get away with it.”

“This can’t be,” Sjovald said.

“But it is. And we’re going to take him down. Finally. And you need to decide whether you’re going to go down with him or tell the truth.”

Bosch stood up, looked out at the cul-de-sac for a moment, and turned back to her.

“You don’t have a lot of time to decide,” he said. “If you’re not with us on this, you’re against us. And that’s a losing proposition.”

She didn’t respond right away but Bosch could see that she was about to crack.

“I had no choice,” she finally said. “I was nineteen years old and they came to me and told me what I had to do and say.”

“They? Who came to you?”

“My father and Nick. I was given no choice and then nothing happened — he was never charged and I never testified. Still, I was so upset. I felt so dirty. And then what my father did. I never spoke to him again.”

“What do you mean? What did your father do?”

“He called the cops. He tried to get Nick arrested. He wanted him out of the way so that when the time came, he’d take over from Nick’s father. But then nothing happened again and his plan failed.”

Bosch guessed that she was talking about the anonymous call that fingered Novak just a few days after the crime. An internal power play that failed then — but was picked up almost twenty years later.

“When the police finally came, my father was dead,” Sjovald said. “Nick called me. He said they were coming and I had to stick to the plan from before: Say that we were together that night in room nine-oh-two. If I didn’t, he would take my daughters from me and I would never see them again.”

“So you lied,” Bosch said.

“I had no choice. Don’t you see?”

“What I see is that you have a choice now. Go with me or go down with him.”

“That is no choice.”

Bosch nodded.