Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (65)

He put KKJZ on the radio and caught an Ed Reed cover of the old Shirley Horn song “Here’s to Life.” Reed sang it slowly, his voice carrying the experience of his years.

He had to turn the radio down when his phone buzzed and he saw it was Ballard.

“Harry, what’s happening?” she asked.

“I haven’t found Rawls yet,” Bosch said. “Looked like nobody was home at his house. No car, no sign of life. Now I’m watching the office on Montana. I haven’t seen him or his car. How about you? Sounds like you’re driving.”

“I’m heading to Brentwood.”

“What’s in Brentwood?”

“Charlie Rowan. I’ve got the search warrant app. Masser helped me write it.”

Bosch knew she was talking about Los Angeles County superior court judge Charles Rowan.

“Is Rowan up on rotation, or is he your judge?” he asked.

“My go-to,” Ballard said. “Masser thinks it’s going to be a squeaker, and I’m hoping I can use my charms with Rowan to push him across the finish line.”

“Yeah, I remember back in the day, he had a reputation. You want me to meet you there?”

“Thanks, Harry, but you’re not my father. Dealing with guys like Rowan is nothing new. I can handle him.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“I can come to you afterward. Brentwood’s nearby.”

“We have to figure out if Rawls is even here. He may have figured out from what Hastings told him that we were only a few moves away from getting to him.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Once I get this signed, we’ll knock on doors and figure out if he’s flown the coop.”

“Okay, I’ll be here.”

They disconnected. Bosch looked across the street at the DGP store. He had a viewing angle through the front window to the shipping counter, where it looked like the employee was reading a book while waiting for the next customer.

Bosch liked the vantage point he had and wasn’t sure the parking space would be available if he left it to drive another circuit around the building. Montana was a major shopping area and parking spaces weren’t left open for long. But that back door bothered him. He didn’t know whether there was an interior stairway that connected the shop with the office above it. Either way, it was impossible for a single set of eyes to keep a complete watch on the business and office. He was hoping Ballard would get there soon with a signed search warrant.





35


JUDGE CHARLES ROWAN’S eyes lit up when he saw Ballard at his front door.

“Renée! My favorite detective in all the City of Angels. How are you, my dear?”

“I’m doing fine, Judge. How are you?”

“Better now that I get to look at you. What have you brought for me?”

He actually took a step back to better appraise her, his gaze lingering on her for too long. Ballard was disgusted but maintained her all-business front.

“I think you know,” she said. “I’ve got a search warrant app on a case that is breaking as we speak. Can I tell you about it?”

“Of course,” Rowan said. “Come in, come in.”

Rowan stepped further back but opened the door only enough for Ballard to pass close by him as she entered. Her discomfort level went up another notch.

Rowan was well into his sixties, easily two decades older than Ballard. He had a full head of silver-gray hair and a matching beard. His prodigious ear hair was a match in color as well.

She had been in Rowan’s home before and knew he lived alone after several failed marriages. She also knew to turn to the right, where the dining room was located, as opposed to the living room, where the judge might try to sit too close to her on the couch.

“Don’t you want to be comfortable in the living room?” Rowan asked.

But Ballard was already to the dining room.

“The table here is fine, Judge,” she said. “My partner is sitting on a location by himself and I don’t want to leave him hanging. It could get dangerous. So, if I could get you to take a look at this, I’ll be able to get back out there.”

“Of course,” Rowan said. “But first things first. What can I get you? A glass of iced tea, a Chardonnay, what would you like?”

“Really, Judge, what I would like is for you to read the warrant and hopefully find that everything adds up and is in order.”

She gave him the most winning smile she could manage under the circumstances. She then put the warrant application down on the table and pulled out the chair for him. She was going to remain standing.

Rowan looked at her and seemed to get the message that this wasn’t going to turn into a social visit. He moved to the chair and sat down.

“Well, let me see what you have here,” he said.

“I can talk you through it,” Ballard said. “But if you just want to read it, everything is right there.”

“Did you go through the District Attorney’s Office with this?”

“Not exactly. I’m now running the cold case unit, Judge, and we have a retired deputy D.A. assigned to the unit who reviews and helps us write our warrants. He came in from home today to work on this because he knew time was of the essence.”

“Really? What’s this deputy’s name?”