Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (44)

“Oh, shit, my bad,” Kramer said. “I guess I shouldn’t have been joking, huh? Who’s dead?”

“Is there a place we can talk privately? I’d rather not be in the middle of this when a customer comes in.”

“Uh, we have a break room in the back. It’s kind of small.”

“That will be fine.”

“I don’t have any appointments till eleven. I could just put a sign on the door and lock up. How long will this take?”

“Not that long.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

He went behind the counter, took out a pad for writing down alteration instructions, and wrote “BACK BY 10:45” on it. Using a piece of hemming tape from a tool basket, he attached the sign to the front glass. He then reached down and locked the door.

“Follow me,” he said.

They went around a curtain in the fitting area and into a space that was half storage and half break room. There was a table with two chairs, and Kramer offered one to Ballard. She pulled it out and sat down. Kramer did the same.

“Now, what murder?” he asked.

“We’ll get to that,” Ballard said. “First, tell me, when was the last time you spoke to Jake Pearlman?”

“Oh my god, is Jake dead?”

His surprise seemed genuine to Ballard. She had wanted to know if he had been tipped to the investigation by Pearlman or anyone else on his team.

“No, he’s not dead,” she said. “Can you remember the last time you talked to him?”

“Uh, well, it’s been a while,” Kramer said. “I called him when he won the election. So that would’ve been four years ago?”

“He got elected six years ago.”

“Wow, time flies. Well, whenever it was, I called and congratulated him. I remember I told him he would be going to a lot of black-tie events now and I offered him a discount here. But that was it. He never took me up on it.”

“What about Nelson Hastings? Did you talk to him lately?”

“Hastings? Forget it. I have no reason to talk to him. I can’t remember the last time.”

“But you know him?”

“More like knew. We all went to school together. Hollywood High—and I do mean high.”

He laughed at his own inside joke. But it was a nervous laugh. Ballard read his tone when he spoke about Hastings as bordering on enmity.

“Did you have a problem with Hastings?” she asked.

“More like he had a problem with me. He wanted Jake to himself and eventually pushed me out. I’m just not that competitive. So now he’s running the Jake show, and I’m here.”

Ballard nodded.

“So, let’s go back to 2005,” she said. “You ran his campaign back then, correct?”

“I did, yeah,” Kramer said. “But I’m not sure I would call it a campaign. That sounds so big and planned—all the things that ours was not.”

“It was a small operation?”

“When Jake ran for president of the senior class at Hollywood High, we probably had a better machine. I mean, the ’05 campaign was held together by spit and Scotch Tape. We didn’t know what we were doing, and it failed as it deserved to fail. Jake stayed in politics, retooled, and then came back and won that seat. I was long gone by then. So tell me who died and what it has to do with me. I’m getting worried here.”

“Laura Wilson died. Was murdered. Does that name sound familiar to you?”

“Laura Wilson—I don’t think so. Let me think for a minute.”

“Sure.”

Kramer seemed to ponder the name, but he didn’t take the minute he’d asked for.

“Are you saying she had something to do with the campaign?” he asked.

“I’m trying to find that out,” Ballard said. “Did you know all the volunteers?”

“Back then, I did, yes. I recruited them. But there were not very many and I don’t remember any Laura Wilson.”

“Let me show you something.”

She opened the file on the table and proffered the 8 x 10 headshot of Laura Wilson. Kramer leaned in to look at it without touching it.

“No, don’t recognize her,” Kramer said.

“Is it possible she could have been a volunteer?” Ballard pressed.

“A Black girl, I would remember. We could’ve used one but we didn’t have any.”

“You’re sure.”

Kramer pointed emphatically at the photo.

“She was not part of the campaign,” he said. “I recruited all the volunteers. She wasn’t one of them.”

“Okay,” Ballard said. “Take a look at this photo.”

She slid an 8 x 10 copy of the photo of Laura’s junk drawer across the table to Kramer.

“You see the campaign button there?” she asked.

“Yep, right there,” Kramer said. “It’s a beauty.”

“Did you have those made?”

“Of course. They were the deluxe—with the freedom ribbons attached. I remember we debated the extra spend but Jake liked the ribbons. Made the button stand out.”

“Who got them?”

“Well, we had them at the office for walk-ins. And we also went door-to-door in the district. We didn’t give everybody a button, but we did give them to people who expressed support for Jake.”