Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (27)

“Like I said, I’m not telling you shit.”

He looked away from Bosch, refusing to give him his eyes.

“It’s okay, Jonathan,” Bosch said. “You just did.”

“Wrong, asshole,” Boatman said.

“So what did your mother say yesterday when she called you after I left?”

“She said you’re an asshole.”

“Really? That hurts.”

“Yeah, good.”

Bosch patted him on the cheek.

“You be good now, Jonathan,” he said.

His knees cracked as he got up. He stumbled a bit getting his balance and tried to hide his own physical exhaustion from the encounter. He turned from Boatman and started back toward the parking lot.

“Fuck you, old man!”

Boatman had yelled it loud but without much conviction. Bosch didn’t even bother to look back. His acknowledgment was a simple wave and then he made a turn and was out of Boatman’s sight.

He knew that Boatman would most likely be on the phone to his mother within minutes. That was okay with Bosch, too. He wanted Sheila Walsh to know that this was not over. Not by a long shot.





15


BALLARD WANTED TO get away from Ahmanson to think. She drove up to Abbott Kinney in Venice and ordered a harvest bowl at the Butcher’s Daughter. Since her breakup with Garrett Single, the paramedic, she had tended to eat vegetarian when on her own. Single had prided himself on his barbecue skills, and it had been a consistent part of the relationship. She had spent the last three months on a cleanse of him and all red meats. She now preferred watermelon radish to brisket and, like the butcher’s daughter, could not see herself going red again.

She was casually making a list as she ate. Then she got a call from one of the first entries on the list. Nelson Hastings.

“Just checking in,” he said, “seeing if there’s anything I can put in front of the councilman today.”

“I was going to call you,” Ballard said.

“Really? What’s up?”

“I wanted to ask you, how far back do the councilman’s campaign records go?”

“If you mean our quarterly CDRs, we keep them from day one. What’s this about?”

“What’s a CDR?”

“Campaign donation report. We file them in accordance with the law. But again, what’s this about, Detective?”

His voice had an urgency and higher pitch than usual. Ballard guessed that the most likely place that elected politicians ran afoul of the law was in the area of money. She quickly tried to allay the concern.

“This has nothing to do with campaign contributions,” she said. “I was wondering about personnel, volunteers, that sort of thing. How far back do you keep records?”

“Well, we keep some,” Hastings said. “I’d have to check. Is there something specific I would be looking for?”

Ballard noted that his voice had returned to its regular, modulated tone.

“Laura Wilson,” Ballard said. “She had a ‘JAKE!’ campaign button in a drawer and I was just wondering if she might have volunteered for him. She wouldn’t have had the money to make a campaign donation, I don’t think, but her parents were active in Chicago politics. I thought maybe she could have gotten involved when she came out here.”

“I thought you told me that she was killed eleven years after Sarah,” Hastings said. “That would be, what, ’05? ’06? Jake didn’t get to the council till six years ago.”

“Right, but he ran unsuccessfully in ’05 in a special election to fill the same seat he has now. Laura lived in the district where he was running, so I thought maybe …”

“Well, that’s before my time. I’d have to see what records we have. What would it mean if that was the case and she was part of the campaign?”

“I don’t know yet. We’re looking for connections between the victims, and if she worked for Jake, then that’s a pretty interesting connection. We’d have to see where it led.”

“Yes, I see what you mean. Let me do this: I’ll see what we’ve got in our records and get back to you as soon as I can. Okay?”

“That would be great. I’m not at the office right now, but when I get back, I could shoot you over a photo of her if that would help.”

“It may, but I think the councilman will know. He never forgets a supporter’s face.”

“Good. If you can run the name by him—”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

“Thank you.”

Ballard hung up and immediately called Darcy Troy at the DNA lab. She knew she might be stepping on Tom Laffont’s toes, since she had assigned him the medical angle to work, but she wanted to keep things in motion.

“Darcy, it’s Renée. Have you heard from Tom Laffont today?”

“Uh, no, was I supposed to?”

“Not necessarily, but I thought he might have called. On the Wilson case, are you able to see if they still have the specimen swabs they got the DNA from?”

“I can check. It should be there unless there was a destroy order from the District Attorney’s Office, and that is only supposed to happen when a case is closed.”

“Good. Can you see what’s there? And then I need a favor.”