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Ballard quickly loaded her laptop and files into her backpack, grabbed her Van Heusen jacket off the back of her chair, and moved toward the exit, leaving Hatteras watching her go.
When she got to the parking lot, Ballard pulled her phone and called Harry Bosch again. She was once more greeted with his outgoing greeting telling all callers to leave a message.
“Harry, me again. Where are you? I think I know who the white nightgown belonged to. Call me back as soon as you get this.”
She put the phone away and jumped into her car.
46
THE DRIVE FROM Miami to Key West was four hours on the Overseas Highway. Along the way, it was mostly mom-and-pop motels, restaurants, sandal factories, and kitschy T-shirt and souvenir shops, all punctuated by long bridges across startling turquoise water on which the sun was reflected in diamonds. Bosch had arrived late to Miami the night before, picked up a rental car, and gotten to Key Largo before he pulled into the parking lot of a motel with a glowing neon vacancy sign and shut things down for the night.
Now it was morning, and his plan was to hit Key West by noon and start looking for Finbar McShane. His starting point would be the Key West Police Department. He had made no advance call and had no appointment. He liked the idea of coming in blind.
Just past Marathon, a backup behind an accident on the Seven Mile Bridge added almost an hour to the drive. It was after 1 p.m. when he pulled into the KWPD parking lot. When Bosch got out of the rental, his injured knee was stiff and throbbing from the long drive. He had not taken any pain medication because he wanted to stay alert while driving, but now he popped the trunk, unzipped the duffel bag he hadpacked in L.A., and popped two tabs of Advil. He hoped the Advil would be strong enough to reduce the pain soon.
The police department was painted in orange and pink pastels. Its front desk was actually an exterior window behind which an officer sat at a counter. Bosch waited in the sun, second in line behind a man asking how to report the theft of a bicycle. Bosch could feel the humidity coating his skin. The air even felt heavy in his lungs.
Finally it was his turn and Bosch limped up to the window, holding his badge out. There was a speaker and microphone set in the glass.
“Hello,” he said. “I work with the Los Angeles Police Department cold case squad. I’m here on a case and wanted to see if I could speak to somebody in missing persons.”
The glass was tinted almost as dark as a limousine’s rear windows. Bosch could barely make out the outline of someone sitting on the other side but could not tell whether he was talking to a man or woman.
A male voice came through the speaker.
“A missing persons cold case?” he asked.
“Uh, no,” Bosch said. “But I think a missing persons detective will be able to help me locate the individual I tracked here.”
“And your name?”
“Harry Bosch.”
“Did that badge say retired?”
“It did. I work as a volunteer investigator. I previously worked cold cases when I was in the department. They asked me to come back after I retired.”
“Okay, let me call back there. If you wouldn’t mind, step back from the window so others can come forward.”
“No problem.”
Bosch stepped away from the window and posted up on its left side. He turned, looked around, and saw that there was nobody else waiting to come forward.
Five minutes went by slowly. He leaned against the wall next to the window to take weight off his knee. The pills he had ingested had yet to reduce the pain.
No one else approached the window, and the man behind it offered Bosch no information. Bosch could feel his shirt starting to stick with perspiration to his back. He took off his sport coat and held it over his arm.
Finally, there was the metal clack of a heavy door opening, and Bosch saw a man in a guayabera shirt step out but hold the door open. The shirt barely disguised that the man had a gun and badge on his belt.
“LAPD?” he said.
“That’s me,” Bosch said.
“Come on back.”
“Thank you.”
He held out his hand as Bosch approached the door.
