The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(110)

“Yeah, well …,” Bosch said. “True heroes are hard to come by, I guess.”

They were silent another moment and Bosch wanted to change the subject.

“When I went there last, to her house,” he said, “you know, to look through his office—before we knew why he took the murder book … anyway, I found a box in his closet where he kept old cases. Not full murder books, but copies of some chronos, reports, and summaries from old cases.”

“That he had worked?” Ballard asked.

“Yeah, from his own cases. And there was one—it was a sixty-day summary from a case I had worked with him. This girl rode her bike under the Hollywood freeway … and then she disappeared. A few days later she was found dead. Murdered. And we never cleared it.”

“What was her name?”

“Sarah Freelander.”

“When was the murder?”

“Nineteen eighty-two.”

“Wow, that’s old. And never solved?”

Bosch shook his head.

“I’m going to ask Margaret for that box,” he said.

Ballard could tell that Bosch’s eyes were seeing the case from long ago. Then he seemed to come back to the present. He brightened and smiled at her.

“Okay, then,” he said. “I guess I’ll let you rest. Any idea when you’ll be out of here?”

“They’re just worried about infection now,” Ballard said. “Otherwise, it’s all good. So I think they’re going to watch it another day and then let me go. Two days at the most.”

“Then I’ll be back tomorrow. You need anything?”

“I’m good. Unless you want to go take my dog for a walk.”

Bosch paused.

“I didn’t think so,” Ballard said, smiling.

“I’m not really good with animals,” Bosch said. “I mean, did you want—”

“Don’t worry about it. Selma has been checking on her and taking her out.”

“Then good. That’s perfect.”

Bosch stood up, squeezed her right hand, and then headed toward the door.

“Sarah Freelander,” Ballard said.

Bosch stopped and turned around.

“If you work that case, I work it with you.”

Bosch nodded.

“Yeah,” Bosch said. “That’s a deal.”

He started to leave the room. Ballard stopped him again.

“Actually, Harry, I need one more thing from you.”

He came back to the bed.

“What?”

“Can you take a picture of all the flowers and stuffed animals? I want to remember all of this.”

“Sure.”

Bosch pulled his phone and stepped to one side so he could get the whole display of good wishes in the frame.

“You want to be in it?” he asked.

“God, no,” Ballard said.

Bosch took three shots from slightly different angles, then opened the camera app on the phone to select the best shot to send her. As he clicked on the “All Photos” option, he saw the shot he had taken while searching Clayton Manley’s office. He had forgotten about it in all the activity that had occurred later. It was a photo of a document on Manley’s computer before it had been purged.

The document was named TRANSFER and contained only a thirteen-digit number followed by the letters G.C. Bosch realized now that G.C. might stand for Grand Cayman.

“Harry, something wrong?” Ballard asked.

“Uh, no,” Bosch said. “Something’s right.”





EPILOGUE


She always sat facing the door. She always came as soon as they opened at 11 so she could get her café con leche and Cuban toast before he arrived. This time was no different. It was early, before the lunch rush at El Tinajon. Otherwise they wouldn’t make the Cuban toast. It wasn’t on the menu—you had to ask for it.

In her peripheral vision she saw a woman come from the kitchen and she thought it was Marta with her toast. But it wasn’t. The woman sat down across from her, and there was a familiarity about her.

“Batman’s not coming,” she said.

Now Cava recognized her.

“You lived,” she said.

Ballard nodded.

“He gave me up, didn’t he?” Cava said.

“No,” Ballard said. “Batman’s not talking. It was Michaelson.”

“Michaelson …”

She seemed genuinely surprised.

“Grand Cayman was the nexus,” Ballard said. “He was headed there when they grabbed him. Then we found your offshore account there—thanks to Harry Bosch. That led to the feds finding his at the same bank. Once the feds got to his money, the game was over. He gave everybody up just so he could keep enough to take care of his family.”

“Family first,” Cava said.

“And he told us how to find you.”

“The only mistakes I have ever made came from trusting men.”

“They can let you down. Some of them.”

Cava nodded. Ballard watched her hands.

“Don’t move your hands,” she said. “You’re under arrest.”

Those last three words were the cue. Soon, members of the task force—FBI, Vegas Metro, LAPD—came down the back hallway and through the kitchen and the front door, weapons drawn, no chances taken with the Black Widow.