Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (87)

“That’s gotta hurt.”

Bosch did not acknowledge the poor attempt at gallows humor.

“The case is almost nine years old,” he said. “We recently reopened it and there’s a person of interest. We have a solid witness that puts him here, but that was at least six years ago.”

Osborne frowned.

“Six years in Key West is a long time,” he said. “This town turns over quick. People come and go. Why’d you ask for a missing persons dick?”

Bosch had not heard the term applied to a detective in a long time, and possibly never in the real world.

“Because of the crime in L.A.,” he said. “This guy played a long game. Took a job, worked his way up over the years until he was a valued employee, then killed the owner and his family and looted the business in a classic bust-out scheme. My guess is he came here to do it all again.”

“As far as I know, we got no families murdered here, LAPD.”

“My witness back in L.A. said he invested in a bar in Key West and then the bar went belly-up. I think if he’s here, he’s moved on to something else.”

“And the missing persons part?”

“Do you have a case involving a prominent person—like a business owner—who’s gone missing?”

Osborne leaned back in his chair and swiveled it back and forth as he considered the question.

“Nothing like that, that I know of. Our cases are mostly about bored teenagers going up to Miami, tourists getting so shit-faced at Sloppy Joe’s they can’t find their way back to the motel. Can’t think of a prominent citizen going missing.”

“What about a bar going under six or seven years ago?”

Osborne let out a laugh.

“There isn’t a shortage of those,” he said.

“Nothing comes to mind?” Bosch pressed. “I’m talking something substantial. My guy put four hundred thousand into it and lost it.”

“Tell you what, the guy you should talk to is Tommy over at the Chart Room.”

“The Chart Room. That’s a bar?”

“At the Pier House.”

“The Pier House?”

“You don’t know shit, do you, LAPD? It’s a hotel at the end of Duval. I think you gotta stay there to get into the Chart Room these days. Place was a dive back in the day. Now they keep the riffraff out.”

“And Tommy?”

“He’s been slinging booze there forty years plus. And he knows the local bar trade better than anybody in this building.”

Bosch nodded. He then raised his sport coat up with one hand, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a document he had copied from the Gallagher Family murder book. He handed it to Osborne, who unfolded it. It was a BOLO flyer. At the top it had a California driver’s license photo of Finbar McShane. Below it were four smaller copies of the photo that had been altered by a police artist to show four possible new looks that McShane could have adopted after fleeing. In the altered photos, McShane alternately had a full beard, a goatee, long hair, or a shaved head. Bosch had put out the BOLO on McShane shortly after originally being assigned the case. That made the photos almost eight years old and of questionable value. But it was all he had to offer.

“This your guy, huh?” Osborne said.

“Yeah,” Bosch said. “Recognize him? Seen him around?”

“Can’t say I have. How old is that BOLO?”

“About eight years. He’d be forty-four now.”

“That’s a long time ago. They couldn’t come up with new stuff?”

“They’re working on it. How would you feel about showing that at roll call? See if any of your street people have seen him.”

“I guess I could do that. It’s a long shot, though.”

“I would appreciate it anyway.”

Osborne grabbed a Post-it pad and put it down in front of Bosch.

“Write your cell number down, and I’ll call you if I come up with anything.”

“I don’t have a phone. I lost it and need to buy one today. I can also call you tomorrow from the hotel.”

Osborne made a face as if to ask, who doesn’t have a cell phone?

“What hotel?” he asked instead.

“I’m going to see if they have a room at the Pier House, I guess.”

“LAPD must have a nice hotel allowance. That place’ll run you at least five hundred a night this time of year.”

Bosch nodded.

“Thanks for your help,” he said. “And the roll call.”

“Not a problem,” Osborne said. “You sure you’re okay, LAPD?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I don’t know. You seem kind of shaky there.”

“It’s the humidity. Not used to it.”

“Yeah, we get that a lot ’round here.”

Back in the parking lot, Bosch took a moment before getting back in the rental to look up at the sky. A row of cumulus clouds was moving over the island. Bosch felt that the light was different here, not as soft as in California. There was a bright harshness to it.

He got in the car and thought about Osborne, wondering if he could trust him. He wasn’t sure. He started the engine and pulled out.