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“This has got to be it,” the driver said.
“I don’t see any numbers,” Bosch said.
“Yes, but it’s got to be it. My GPS says so, and this will be the best I can do for you, sir.”
“Okay, I’m getting out here. You want to wait around? I’ll be out in less than thirty minutes and then I go to the American terminal at O’Hare. I’ll pay you to wait. I don’t want to miss my plane.”
“No, man, I don’t wait ’round here.”
“You sure? Fifty bucks, just to wait a half hour. Then the airport run on top of that.”
Bosch saw the driver’s eyes in the mirror. He was consideringthe offer. The ride app had said his name was Irfan. Bosch wasn’t sure why he was uncomfortable staying in the neighborhood. It was certainly a mid- to low-income neighborhood, but there was nothing that indicated possible danger. No graffiti, no gangbangers hanging on the corners.
“Make it eighty, Irfan,” Bosch said. “Cash.”
The driver looked at him in the mirror.
“Make it a hundred,” he said. “And a five-star rating.”
Bosch nodded.
“Done,” he said. “Now, you want me to rip a hundred-dollar bill in half like they do in the movies? Give you half, I keep half?”
“No, but you pay me as soon as you get back in the car,” Irfan said. “Cash. Or I leave you right here, and good luck to you getting another ride. Nobody will come here and you will miss your plane.”
“Deal. I only have twenties anyway.”
Irfan didn’t appear to see the humor in that. Bosch cracked the door and was about to get out with his backpack, when he hesitated.
“Irfan, what is wrong with this neighborhood that no driver would come out here?” he asked.
“Too many guns,” Irfan said.
Bosch thought that might be an issue for most neighborhoods in most big cities, but he let it go and got out.
The house’s exterior, front lawn, and bushes were kept neat and clean. The blond brick gave a sense of resolute sturdiness, as though the place was a fortress against cold and heat.
Juanita Wilson was expecting him and opened the doorbefore he got to it. She was an old lady and she weakly smiled at him.
“Mrs. Wilson?” Bosch asked. “I’m Harry Bosch. We spoke on the phone.”
“That’s me—Juanita,” she said. “Please come in.”
Bosch entered and lightly shook her hand. She seemed thin and frail and wore a loose housedress to disguise it. Her hair was hidden in a turban-style head wrap made of cloth striped with red, black, and green. Even so, Bosch saw a resemblance to the photo Ballard had of Laura Wilson. The eyes matched.
He thanked her for her help and for allowing him to intrude on such short notice. He explained that the sooner he got back to Los Angeles, the sooner the campaign button could be examined for fingerprints and DNA, and the investigation could proceed. It was for this reason that he had booked a flight that would get him back by midafternoon.
“In other words, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he said. “I want to get this back and have our techs look at it as soon as possible.”
“I understand,” Juanita said.
She led him through the small house and back to the bedroom that had been her daughter’s. It was small but had a nice glow from the sun through a window with the curtains drawn open.
It looked to Bosch as though half the room had been preserved as Laura had left it, and half had been rededicated as a home office. A folding table with a desk chair held rubber-banded stacks of mail along with other assorted paperwork.
“My husband set up in here after Laura went to L.A.,” Juanita said. “But we kept the rest for her when she would come hometo visit or in case she gave up on her dream and wanted to come back. And then … we just left it.”
Bosch nodded that he understood. He saw a cardboard box on the bed and pointed to it.
