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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 still 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.”
“I was going to call you,” Ballard said.
“Really? What’s up?”
“I wanted to ask you, how far back do the councilman’s campaign records go?”
“If you mean our quarterly CDRs, we keep them from day one. What’s this about?”
