Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (101)

“Don’t shoot!” he called out. “Don’t shoot!”

They opened the door, came in, and walked down the entrance hallway and into the room.

He saw it was Ballard, along with a man in a suit and two uniformed officers.

“Harry,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Renée,” he said. “What are you—you came.”

She didn’t answer him. She turned to the men behind her and held her hands up in a stay-back gesture.

“He’s fine,” she said. “False alarm. Everything’s okay. You can all—”

“Are you sure, ma’am?” the suit said. “He looks confused.”

“You woke me up,” Bosch said. “Yeah, I’m confused.”

He checked his hands and clothes for blood but all were clean. He had fallen asleep in his clothes. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower after the long night’s cleanup.

The older of the two officers pushed past Ballard and entered the bedroom. He turned on the lamp on the bedside table and looked at Bosch, who was now sitting on the side of the bed. Bosch’s feet were bare and he was wearing a clean long-sleeved shirt and pants. He had not packed anything to sleep in.

“Sir, are you all right?” the officer asked.

“I’m fine,” Bosch said. “I’m just not used to people coming into my room in the middle of the night.”

“Sir, it’s almost noon. Have you ingested any drugs or alcohol?”

“No, nothing. I’m fine. I’m just … tired. I stayed up too late.”

“Would you like medical attention?”

“No, I don’t want medical attention.”

“Are you planning to harm yourself or others?”

Bosch forced a laugh and shook his head.

“Are you kidding? No, I have no plans to ‘harm’ anyone, including myself.”

“Okay, sir, we’re going to leave you with your colleague. Is that okay?”

“That’s okay. That would make me happy.”

“Okay, sir, you have a good day.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry for the callout. I’m just a deep sleeper, I guess.”

The officer turned and headed to the door, followed by his partner. He had a radio mike on his shoulder. He turned his mouth toward it and reported to dispatch that they were clearing this scene without incident. The man in the suit followed the officers out.

“Thanks, guys,” Ballard called after them. “Sorry for the false alarm.”

Bosch heard the door shut. He waited for Ballard to speak first.

“Harry, what the fuck?”

“What? What are you doing here?”

“Like them, making sure you’re okay.”

“You flew across the country to make sure I was okay?”

“I think you wanted me to. The Sheila Walsh interview. The call to Maddie. You were leaving bread crumbs.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Bosch stood up and looked around for his socks and shoes. They were on the floor by a chair in the corner. He walked over, sat down, and started putting them on.

“You found McShane, didn’t you?”

Bosch didn’t answer. He concentrated on the task of tying his shoelaces. He then stood up and pulled the curtain open. He squinted at the harsh sunlight reflecting like cut diamonds off the water and into his eyes.

“Where’s the note you left for me?” Ballard asked.

Bosch looked back at her. She was still standing by the door from the entry hall, like she didn’t want to come all the way into his room.

“What note?” he said.

“This wasn’t the first wellness check on you, Harry. They came in last night. You were gone but your wallet was in the drawer, and there was an envelope with my name on it on the desk. Bread crumbs.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do.”

“There’s no note, Renée.”

She was silent and Bosch knew that she had figured out everything.

“Then I guess that means you did find him. What happened?”

Bosch looked back out at the water.

“Let’s just say the case is closed,” he said. “And leave it at that.”

“Harry,” Ballard said. “What did you do?”

“It’s closed. That’s all you need to know. Sometimes …”

“Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes you do the wrong thing for the right reason. And this was that time and this was that case.”

“Oh, Harry …”

Bosch read her disappointment and anguish all in the way she said his name. He still couldn’t turn to face her.

“Would it help you to know I had no choice?” he asked.

“No, not really,” Ballard said. “Whatever happened, however it happened, you put it in play.”

Bosch nodded. He knew that was true.

“Can we just talk about something else?” he said.

“Like what?” Ballard said. “Like about your little blue pills?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The knockoff fentanyl I found in the drawer at your house. That your daughter also found.”