Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (26)

“Uh, talk to me about what?” Boatman said. “Who are you?”

“Harry Bosch. I talked to your mother yesterday and I thought she was going to tell you I was planning to come by today.”

“My mother? She didn’t tell me shit. I’m on my break, man. You can’t just come back here.”

Bosch glanced around as if looking for a way out. He did this so that his jacket would open, revealing the badge clipped to his belt. The badge was authentic, but it said RETIRED across the bottom of the shield where for many years it had said DETECTIVE. He believed he was far enough away from the table that it could not be read by Boatman or any of the others.

“Okay,” he said. “I thought it would just save some time. But I’ll go back to the office at the clubhouse and get it set up.”

He started to walk back toward the open gate in the fence he had entered through. As expected, Boatman stopped him. He wasn’t keen on bringing management into whatever this was.

“Okay, hold on, hold on,” he said.

Bosch turned around and saw that Boatman was now sliding off the bench. He walked around the table and to Bosch. Harry noted that his skin was clear and his face fuller than in the mug shots. It looked like he was clean. According to the arrest reports Bosch had reviewed, Boatman was thirty-five years old. Whether or not he had stopped using, his years of addiction had added years to his appearance and demeanor. He looked at least forty, with thinning brown hair and stooped shoulders. And though his arms were well-tanned from his work outside in the sun, his complexion was sallow. Most telling of all, his eyes were still dead.

“What’s this about?” he asked. “We don’t need to get management involved.”

“Is there anywhere private we can talk?” Bosch asked.

“Not exactly. But let’s get out of here. This is fucked up, man. I mean, I work here, and I don’t need the fucking police coming around.”

Boatman led Bosch around the grounds maintenance enclosure into an area under a wind-billowing canopy that protected new sod from being burned by the sun. There were four-foot-high stacks of sod squares on wooden pallets ready to be moved anywhere on the course that replanting was needed.

He abruptly turned around to face Bosch.

“All right, now what is it?” he demanded. “I am totally clean. Been that way for two years, four months, and six days.”

“I don’t care if you’re clean or not, Jonathan,” Bosch said. “This is not about your history with drugs.”

“Then what is it, and what’s my mother got to do with it?”

“Remember the burglary at your mother’s place? I was talking to her about it yesterday and your name came up, and I thought I would check in with you, see what you remember.”

Boatman put both hands on his hips and adopted what he thought was an intimidating stance. He was a solid three inches taller than Bosch and he mistakenly thought that his height and his age were an advantage.

“You come all the way out here to talk about that?” he said. “A ten-year-old burglary where a fucking phone was taken?”

“More like six years ago,” Bosch said calmly. “And there was more than a phone taken.”

“Whatever. Who gives a fuck? I wasn’t even there. Why do you come to my place of work and ask me this shit? Are you trying to get me fired, motherfucker? I don’t care how old you are, I’ll knock your fucking head—”

Before he finished the threat, Bosch pistoned his left fist under Boatman’s chin and into his throat. Boatman bit off his last word, stepped back, and leaned over, trying to get a breath down his windpipe. Bosch put his hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Relax and it’ll come back. Just relax.”

Boatman’s legs went out and he landed butt-first on the ground. Bosch gently guided him down so that he was lying on his back.

“You just lost your breath, that’s all,” he said. “Just take it easy and it’ll come back.”

Boatman’s face was almost purple, but then Bosch saw his skin begin to turn red and his breathing start to return to normal.

“That’s it,” he said. “You’re all right. Just keep breathing.”

“Fuck you,” Boatman said.

His words came out strangled and high-pitched.

“You were threatening me and I had to stop it,” Bosch said.

“I wasn’t …,” Boatman said.

He stopped talking, realizing it was too soon. Bosch was crouched next to him, ready to strike again if Boatman was foolish enough to attempt to retaliate.

He didn’t. He relaxed and eventually turned his head to see if any of his coworkers had seen him laid low by an old man.

“What the fuck do you want?” he finally asked.

“I want to know if that was you who did the burglary.”

“Why would I rip off my own mother?”

Boatman started to get up but Bosch put his hand on his chest and pushed him back down.

“Stay down,” he said. “You ripped her off for drug money. It was crystal meth, right?”

“I’m not talking to you, man,” Boatman said. “I’m not telling you shit.”

“You sure? I mean, it doesn’t matter. It’s long past any statute of limitations. If I had still been a cop back then, things might’ve been different. But you got lucky and got away with it. You can’t be charged now. So you might as well tell me.”