Desert Star Page 8

  Though Wilson’s apartment had only one bedroom, there was ample storage space for clothes and other belongings. Ballard moved slowly through the photos, enlarging areas that caught her interest as she went. The clothes in the walk-in closet indicated that either Wilson dedicated a large amount of her income to what she wore or money for her wardrobe was part of the support that came from her parents or other acquaintances. Nothing in any of the records showed that she’d had a current boyfriend. She had been on two fledgling social media apps at the time—Myspace and Facebook—but Ballard’s earlier review of those did not show Wilson as a Hollywood party girl. She seemed to be quite serious about her five-year plan, and the rich assortment of clothes and shoes in her apartment were most likely part of that. Some taped auditions on her computer showed that she often tried out for young but sophisticated roles in movies and TV. In each of these she had dressed the part, and now Ballard was looking at the walk-in closet where Laura had put together those outfits. There was something depressing about it—that this young woman had had a plan, that she worked hard at it, prepared herself for it, stood in front of the mirror on the closet door and made sure she looked just right for a part, and that all her ambition was taken away in a horrible night of violence. Ballard made a vow to herself that she would never put this case back on the shelf. That no matter what happened, she would work this case as long as she was working cases.

  The emotion of the moment hit her and made her go to the murder book to find the contacts page. The next of kin were listed as parents Philip and Juanita Wilson in Chicago. In short descriptions, Philip was listed as a fourteenth-ward committee member and Juanita was listed as a schoolteacher. Ballard knew she would be opening old wounds by calling, but she also knew parents never got past the death of a child at any age. Ballard wanted them to know the case was not on a shelf anymore and was being worked.

  She called the number, and it was still good after seventeen years. An old woman’s voice answered. If Laura Wilson were still alive, she would be over forty, putting her parents at least in their sixties and probably older.

  “Mrs. Wilson?”

  “Yes, is this LAPD?”

  Ballard realized that her desk phone probably carried a generic LAPD ID.

  “Yes, ma’am, my name is Renée Ballard. I’m a detective with the LAPD. I’m in charge of the Open-Unsolved Unit.”

  “Did you catch him? The man who killed my baby?”

  “No, ma’am, not yet. I’m calling to tell you we have reopened the investigation and are pursuing new leads. I just wanted you to know.”

  “What new leads?”

  “I can’t really get into that right now, Mrs. Wilson. But if something happens and we make an arrest, I will be calling you and your husband to let you know first. For right now, I just wanted to introduce my—”

  “My husband is dead. He got Covid and died two years ago. Right when it all started.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “He’s with Laura now. At the end he couldn’t breathe. He died like her, not being able to breathe.”

  Ballard wasn’t sure how to exit the call. She thought she would be giving the parents of Laura Wilson hope, but she realized that she was just a reminder of the family’s ongoing trauma.

  “I can tell you one thing, Mrs. Wilson, and this is just between you and me for right now. We have connected Laura’s case to another case and we are hoping that investigating them together will help lead us to the man who did this.”

  “What other case? You mean a murder?”

  “Yes, a case that happened before. The DNA matches.”

  “You mean, before Laura was killed by this man, he killed someone else? Another girl? Did you put out a warning?”

  “The connection was only made through DNA, and aspects of the crime were different enough that no connection was made back when these crimes happened. Do you have something to write my name down with? I will give you my direct cell number in case you have questions or anything else comes up.”

  It was a clumsy transition, but Ballard hoped it would bring the call to an end. Juanita Wilson wrote down her name and cell number. Ballard ended the call with an invitation to Wilson to call anytime if she had questions or thought of something that might be helpful to the renewed investigation.

  After Ballard finally put the phone back into its cradle, Colleen Hatteras poked her head up over the privacy wall.

  “The mother?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Ballard said.

  She was annoyed that Hatteras had heard the conversation.

  “The father is dead?” Hatteras asked.

  “Yes,” Ballard said. “He never saw justice for his daughter.”

  “Covid?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ballard looked up at her, wondering if that was an educated guess or an empathic feeling. She decided not to ask.

  “How are you doing with the witness statements?” she asked instead.

  Hatteras had been given the statements made by Laura Wilson’s professional and social acquaintances to determine if any were inconsistent or needed to be followed up. Such follow-ups would be a long shot, since the murder occurred so long ago and the people interviewed might now have little recall of that time period.

  “Nothing is popping up so far,” Hatteras said. “But I have more to go.”

  “Okay,” Ballard said. “Let me know.”

  “Did you order the evidence from property?”

  “I did. I said so during the briefing. It should get here today or tomorrow. Why?”

  “Can I see the property list?”

  “Sure.”

  Ballard easily found it in the murder book, unsnapped the rings, and handed the sheet over the privacy wall to Hatteras.

  “What are you looking for?” Ballard asked.

  Hatteras didn’t answer until she had scanned the list of property and evidence stored back in 2005.

  “I just wanted to see what was there,” Hatteras said. “They kept her nightgown and the bedclothes.”

  “Right,” Ballard said. “It would have been evidence presented in court if a case had ever been made.”

  “Sometimes I can get a communication from this sort of evidence.”

  “What do you mean by ‘a communication’?”

  “I don’t know, like a feeling. A message.”

  “Colleen, I don’t think we’re going to go down that path. I have to safeguard our investigations so that they can’t be successfully challenged in court. You understand? I think if we go the psychic route—and please don’t take this personally—we will run into credibility issues.”

  “I know. I understand. It’s just a thought, something to consider if we hit a wall with the investigation.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep it in mind. But you said sometimes you get a communication from evidence like this. When have you done that before?”

  “Well, I haven’t officially done it before. But sometimes families have called me because they’ve heard about my gift. It was how I got into the whole genealogy field. From families wanting answers.”

  Ballard just nodded. She wished Hatteras had mentioned this during the interview process.

  “I’m going to get back on this now, Colleen,” she said.

  “Sure,” Hatteras said. “Me, too.”

  Hatteras dropped out of sight behind the wall and Ballard tried to put aside the growing realization that she had chosen wrong in bringing her onto the team. She went back to reviewing the crime scene photographs. Laura Wilson’s bedroom walk-in closet had a built-in bureau next to the shoe racks. The photographer had opened each of the six drawers and photographed the contents without disturbing them. The first four drawers from the bottom were crammed with folded clothing, underwear, and socks. The two smaller side-by-side drawers that occupied the top tier of the bureau were filled mostly with jewelry, hair bands, and other accoutrements. One of these drawers also seemed to be the junk drawer. There were receipts, matchb
ooks, postcards, loose change, earbuds, phone chargers, Halloween candy, and other things.

  But one thing in this drawer caught Ballard’s eye in a big way. It was a round white pin-on button with orange letters that said “JAKE!” Attached to its bottom edge were two short lengths of red-white-and-blue-striped ribbon.

  This gave Ballard pause and she moved quickly to the computer to open Google and run the name Jake Pearlman. While the councilman was not an internationally known politician, he did rate a Wikipedia page that listed his pathway to power in Los Angeles. The page documented his first bid for election to the city council in 2005. He had run for the Hollywood seat left vacant when a councilman resigned following a federal indictment for campaign contribution violations. Jake Pearlman lost the election but remained active in politics, and more than a decade later, he won that same Hollywood seat on the council.

  Ballard had not known about Pearlman’s early run for elected office but recognized the campaign button because the councilman had used its simple style in his more recent elections.

  Ballard leaned back in her chair and thought about this. The 2005 election came on November 8, just three days after Laura Wilson was murdered. Somewhere in that campaign season she had picked up or been given a button that ended up in her junk drawer. What, if anything, did this mean? Was it coincidence that she ended up with a button supporting a candidate whose sister had been murdered eleven years earlier by the man who would also kill Wilson?

  She had to consider that this was no coincidence and that the connection meant something to the case. She needed to pursue this and get more information.

  And she had to talk to Harry Bosch.

  14

  Bosch was not a golfer. It was a sport that required more money than he could afford while growing up, and as an adult, he had always been too busy with his job to engage in five-hour outings on a golf course. Added to that, it still took more money than he could spare, and he had issues with calling any endeavor that involved drinking and smoking a sport. All that aside, he knew enough about it to know that it was likely that the greenskeepers worked early, doing much of their job on the course before the golfers came with their electric carts, clubs, and cigars.

  He got to the Sand Canyon Country Club shortly before eleven and quickly found the hidden compound where the machinery involved in grooming the course was kept and the greenskeepers had a long break table under the spreading branches of an old sand pine. Bosch was not dressed for golf, so the workers knew right away that he had not wandered into their presence looking for a lost ball. He picked out Boatman’s face from the many turned toward him and waved a hello.

  “Jonathan, I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes,” he said.

  “Uh, talk to me about what?” Boatman said. “Who are you?”

  “Harry Bosch. I talked to your mother yesterday and I thought she was going to tell you I was planning to come by today.”

  “My mother? She didn’t tell me shit. I’m on my break, man. You can’t just come back here.”

  Bosch glanced around as if looking for a way out. He did this so that his jacket would open, revealing the badge clipped to his belt. The badge was authentic, but it said RETIRED across the bottom of the shield where for many years it had said DETECTIVE. He believed he was far enough away from the table that it could not be read by Boatman or any of the others.

  “Okay,” he said. “I thought it would just save some time. But I’ll go back to the office at the clubhouse and get it set up.”

  He started to walk back toward the open gate in the fence he had entered through. As expected, Boatman stopped him. He wasn’t keen on bringing management into whatever this was.

  “Okay, hold on, hold on,” he said.

  Bosch turned around and saw that Boatman was now sliding off the bench. He walked around the table and to Bosch. Harry noted that his skin was clear and his face fuller than in the mug shots. It looked like he was clean. According to the arrest reports Bosch had reviewed, Boatman was thirty-five years old. Whether or not he had stopped using, his years of addiction had added years to his appearance and demeanor. He looked at least forty, with thinning brown hair and stooped shoulders. And though his arms were well-tanned from his work outside in the sun, his complexion was sallow. Most telling of all, his eyes were still dead.

  “What’s this about?” he asked. “We don’t need to get management involved.”

  “Is there anywhere private we can talk?” Bosch asked.

  “Not exactly. But let’s get out of here. This is fucked up, man. I mean, I work here, and I don’t need the fucking police coming around.”

  Boatman led Bosch around the grounds maintenance enclosure into an area under a wind-billowing canopy that protected new sod from being burned by the sun. There were four-foot-high stacks of sod squares on wooden pallets ready to be moved anywhere on the course that replanting was needed.

  He abruptly turned around to face Bosch.

  “All right, now what is it?” he demanded. “I am totally clean. Been that way for two years, four months, and six days.”

  “I don’t care if you’re clean or not, Jonathan,” Bosch said. “This is not about your history with drugs.”

  “Then what is it, and what’s my mother got to do with it?”

  “Remember the burglary at your mother’s place? I was talking to her about it yesterday and your name came up, and I thought I would check in with you, see what you remember.”

  Boatman put both hands on his hips and adopted what he thought was an intimidating stance. He was a solid three inches taller than Bosch and he mistakenly thought that his height and his age were an advantage.

  “You come all the way out here to talk about that?” he said. “A ten-year-old burglary where a fucking phone was taken?”

  “More like six years ago,” Bosch said calmly. “And there was more than a phone taken.”

  “Whatever. Who gives a fuck? I wasn’t even there. Why do you come to my place of work and ask me this shit? Are you trying to get me fired, motherfucker? I don’t care how old you are, I’ll knock your fucking head—”

  Before he finished the threat, Bosch pistoned his left fist under Boatman’s chin and into his throat. Boatman bit off his last word, stepped back, and leaned over, trying to get a breath down his windpipe. Bosch put his hand on his shoulder to steady him.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Relax and it’ll come back. Just relax.”

  Boatman’s legs went out and he landed butt-first on the ground. Bosch gently guided him down so that he was lying on his back.

  “You just lost your breath, that’s all,” he said. “Just take it easy and it’ll come back.”

  Boatman’s face was almost purple, but then Bosch saw his skin begin to turn red and his breathing start to return to normal.

  “That’s it,” he said. “You’re all right. Just keep breathing.”

  “Fuck you,” Boatman said.

  His words came out strangled and high-pitched.

  “You were threatening me and I had to stop it,” Bosch said.

  “I wasn’t…,” Boatman said.

  He stopped talking, realizing it was too soon. Bosch was crouched next to him, ready to strike again if Boatman was foolish enough to attempt to retaliate.

  He didn’t. He relaxed and eventually turned his head to see if any of his coworkers had seen him laid low by an old man.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he finally asked.

  “I want to know if that was you who did the burglary.”

  “Why would I rip off my own mother?”

  Boatman started to get up but Bosch put his hand on his chest and pushed him back down.

  “Stay down,” he said. “You ripped her off for drug money. It was crystal meth, right?”

  “I’m not talking to you, man,” Boatman said. “I’m not telling you shit.”

  “You sure? I mean, it doesn’t matter. It’s long past any statute of limitations. If I had st
ill been a cop back then, things might’ve been different. But you got lucky and got away with it. You can’t be charged now. So you might as well tell me.”

  “Like I said, I’m not telling you shit.”

  He looked away from Bosch, refusing to give him his eyes.

  “It’s okay, Jonathan,” Bosch said. “You just did.”

  “Wrong, asshole,” Boatman said.

  “So what did your mother say yesterday when she called you after I left?”

  “She said you’re an asshole.”

  “Really? That hurts.”

  “Yeah, good.”

  Bosch patted him on the cheek.

  “You be good now, Jonathan,” he said.

  His knees cracked as he got up. He stumbled a bit getting his balance and tried to hide his own physical exhaustion from the encounter. He turned from Boatman and started back toward the parking lot.

  “Fuck you, old man!”

  Boatman had yelled it loud but without much conviction. Bosch didn’t even bother to look back. His acknowledgment was a simple wave and then he made a turn and was out of Boatman’s sight.

  He knew that Boatman would most likely be on the phone to his mother within minutes. That was okay with Bosch, too. He wanted Sheila Walsh to know that this was not over. Not by a long shot.

  15

  Ballard wanted to get away from Ahmanson to think. She drove up to Abbott Kinney in Venice and ordered a harvest bowl at the Butcher’s Daughter. Since her breakup with Garrett Single, the paramedic, she had tended to eat vegetarian when on her own. Single had prided himself on his barbecue skills, and it had been a consistent part of the relationship. She had spent the last three months on a cleanse of him and all red meats. She now preferred watermelon radish to brisket and, like the butcher’s daughter, could not see herself going red again.

  She was casually making a list as she ate. Then she got a call from one of the first entries on the list. Nelson Hastings.

  “Just checking in,” he said, “seeing if there’s anything I can put in front of the councilman today.”