Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (41)

Before Pearlman could respond, Hastings leaned in with a verbal prompt this time.

“Jake, we really gotta go,” he said.

Pearlman stood up and Ballard followed.

“You mean like a safe or something?” Pearlman asked.

“Yes, an evidence safe would be good,” Ballard said.

Pearlman turned to Hastings.

“Nelly, remember that,” he said. “We need to get a safe in here.”

“I’ll remember,” Hastings said.

Pearlman turned back to Ballard and put out his hand. The videographer focused on their hands as they shook.

“Thank you for what you’re doing, Detective,” Pearlman said. “It means a lot to me, but more importantly, it means a lot to this city and this community. We can never forget our victims.”

“Yes, sir,” Ballard said dutifully.

She walked the group out and then returned to her workstation, expecting the others to crowd around and ask questions about the high-powered visit. But only Colleen Hatteras poked her head up over the partition.

“So, how did that go?” she asked.

“I guess okay,” Ballard said. “We just need to break open his sister’s case and then we’re made in the shade.”

“We will.”

“Anything on IGG?”

“I’ve got one hit through GEDmatch so far. A distant cousin to our unknown suspect. I’m going to reach out today, but I’m hoping we get something better. Something closer.”

“Good. Let me know.”

Hatteras dropped back out of sight and Ballard went to work. Not believing that Hastings or anyone else in Pearlman’s crew would move quickly to get her a contact number for Sandy Kramer, Ballard started looking on her own. She guessed that Sandy was a nickname or a diminutive for a given name such as Alexander. As she expected, DMV records didn’t help. There were too many Alexander Kramers for her to confidently pick a winner. There were also several entries under Sandy or other alternatives, like Sandor and Sundeep.

Her next move was to google tuxedo shops in Century City and start making phone calls. When she had exhausted all the internet listings and hadn’t come across a salesman named Kramer, she moved on to Beverly Hills, which was adjacent to Century City.

She hit pay dirt on her third call, this one to a place on Beverly Drive called Tux by Lux. She was told that a salesman named Alexander Kramer was on his day off but would be back at ten the next morning. Ballard guessed that selling tuxedos in Beverly Hills required a more formal name than Sandy.

Ballard disconnected. She planned to be in Beverly Hills the next morning when Kramer came to work.





22


BOSCH WAS SQUINTING through the sharp morning light and a slight hangover, looking for address numbers on a small blond-brick house at the corner of South Keeler and West 43rd Street. He was far from the DoubleTree near the lake, where he had spent the night. And even farther from Los Angeles. He was sitting in the back seat of an Uber in a mixed neighborhood of small homes and one-floor warehouses and manufacturing businesses.

“This has got to be it,” the driver said.

“I don’t see any numbers,” Bosch said.

“Yes, but it’s got to be it. My GPS says so, and this will be the best I can do for you, sir.”

“Okay, I’m getting out here. You want to wait around? I’ll be out in less than thirty minutes and then I go to the American terminal at O’Hare. I’ll pay you to wait. I don’t want to miss my plane.”

“No, man, I don’t wait ’round here.”

“You sure? Fifty bucks, just to wait a half hour. Then the airport run on top of that.”

Bosch saw the driver’s eyes in the mirror. He was considering the offer. The ride app had said his name was Irfan. Bosch wasn’t sure why he was uncomfortable staying in the neighborhood. It was certainly a mid-to low-income neighborhood, but there was nothing that indicated possible danger. No graffiti, no gangbangers hanging on the corners.

“Make it eighty, Irfan,” Bosch said. “Cash.”

The driver looked at him in the mirror.

“Make it a hundred,” he said. “And a five-star rating.”

Bosch nodded.

“Done,” he said. “Now, you want me to rip a hundred-dollar bill in half like they do in the movies? Give you half, I keep half?”

“No, but you pay me as soon as you get back in the car,” Irfan said. “Cash. Or I leave you right here, and good luck to you getting another ride. Nobody will come here and you will miss your plane.”

“Deal. I only have twenties anyway.”

Irfan didn’t appear to see the humor in that. Bosch cracked the door and was about to get out with his backpack, when he hesitated.

“Irfan, what is wrong with this neighborhood that no driver would come out here?” he asked.

“Too many guns,” Irfan said.

Bosch thought that might be an issue for most neighborhoods in most big cities, but he let it go and got out.

The house’s exterior, front lawn, and bushes were kept neat and clean. The blond brick gave a sense of resolute sturdiness, as though the place was a fortress against cold and heat.

Juanita Wilson was expecting him and opened the door before he got to it. She was an old lady and she weakly smiled at him.