Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (42)

“Mrs. Wilson?” Bosch asked. “I’m Harry Bosch. We spoke on the phone.”

“That’s me—Juanita,” she said. “Please come in.”

Bosch entered and lightly shook her hand. She seemed thin and frail and wore a loose housedress to disguise it. Her hair was hidden in a turban-style head wrap made of cloth striped with red, black, and green. Even so, Bosch saw a resemblance to the photo Ballard had of Laura Wilson. The eyes matched.

He thanked her for her help and for allowing him to intrude on such short notice. He explained that the sooner he got back to Los Angeles, the sooner the campaign button could be examined for fingerprints and DNA, and the investigation could proceed. It was for this reason that he had booked a flight that would get him back by midafternoon.

“In other words, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he said. “I want to get this back and have our techs look at it as soon as possible.”

“I understand,” Juanita said.

She led him through the small house and back to the bedroom that had been her daughter’s. It was small but had a nice glow from the sun through a window with the curtains drawn open.

It looked to Bosch as though half the room had been preserved as Laura had left it, and half had been rededicated as a home office. A folding table with a desk chair held rubber-banded stacks of mail along with other assorted paperwork.

“My husband set up in here after Laura went to L.A.,” Juanita said. “But we kept the rest for her when she would come home to visit or in case she gave up on her dream and wanted to come back. And then … we just left it.”

Bosch nodded that he understood. He saw a cardboard box on the bed and pointed to it.

“Is that where you found the pin?” he asked.

“Yes, right in that one,” Juanita said. “There were some clothes on the top and some scripts I think she was working with at the time. But when I lifted them out, I saw the button right away in a shoebox.”

Bosch pulled out his phone and turned on the video camera.

“Mrs. Wilson, can you show me without touching the button?” he asked.

He followed her on camera as she went to the box, spread the cardboard flaps, and then pointed down into it. He moved in to see that there was a shoebox within the larger box. Its top was off and it was filled with small items that Bosch recognized from the crime scene photo of Laura Wilson’s junk drawer. He brought his phone down and then zoomed in on the campaign button that said “JAKE!”

“If I give you my phone, would you please video me as I retrieve the button, Mrs. Wilson?” Bosch asked.

“If you want,” Juanita said. “I’m not all that good with a camera.”

“It’ll be fine. I just want to be able to document chain of custody.”

“Chain of custody?”

“Who had possession of the item and when. That once it was collected, it was maintained in police control.”

“I understand.”

Bosch handed her the phone and she recorded him putting on rubber gloves from his backpack and opening a plastic evidence bag. He then reached into the box and removed the campaign button from the shoebox. He bagged it, sealed it, and put it in the side pocket of his sport coat.

He reached for the phone, spoke the date and time of day, and then turned the recording off. He played the beginning of the video to check that Juanita had gotten what he needed.

“That should do it,” he said. “Thank you.”

“What else can I do?” Juanita asked.

Bosch hesitated. He had both a print kit and swab kit in his backpack. Ballard had given them to him when she walked him out of the Ahmanson Center. Under evidence protocols, he knew he should take Juanita’s fingerprints and a DNA swab so she could be excluded from anything that might be found on the campaign button. But he was hesitant about putting this frail Black woman through that and possibly making her feel victimized by the investigation of her own daughter’s murder. He decided to pass on the protocols.

“You said you didn’t even touch the button, right?” he asked.

“No, I saw it there and didn’t go near it, like you told me,” Juanita said. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. Everything’s good. Then I think that’s it and I can get out of your hair.”

“What happens now?”

“Well, I go back to Los Angeles and, like I said, I’ll get this into forensics today. If we get lucky, we get a print that is not your daughter’s and run it down, see who handled the button, maybe find out who gave it to her. Either Detective Ballard or I will keep you informed of our progress.”

“Okay. Because I’m not sure how much more I can wait, you know?”

“I know it’s difficult. You have waited a long, long time, and believe me, I know what that’s like.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m on a clock, Detective Bosch. I have cancer. A terminal cancer and I want to know before … the end.”

Bosch realized that she was not an old lady as he had initially thought. She was sick. He guessed that the head wrap probably hid the baldness that was the result of the brutal assault of anticancer treatment. He was immediately embarrassed by his gaffe in saying he would get out of her hair.

“I’m sorry,” Bosch whispered.