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“Shit,” he whispered. “No stars for you, Irfan.”
He walked down the steps and pulled his phone to open the ride app and try to get another car. Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention and he looked up to see Irfan’s car gliding to a stop at the curb. His window was down.
“I went to refuel,” he called.
Bosch got in the back seat. He handed five twenties over the seat to the driver.
“Hold here for a second,” he said.
Irfan did as instructed. Bosch plugged in his earphones and turned on the music he had downloaded to his phone the night before. He had gone to see the Pharez Whitted Quintet at Winter’s Jazz Club near the Navy Pier. The set had been a tribute to Miles Davis, and Bosch had enjoyed it and stayed too late. But he wanted to hear Whitted’s own music and had downloaded three albums when he got back to his hotel room. Now a song called “The Tree of Life” played in his ears while he looked back at the house Laura Wilson had come from.
Modest was an understatement. He thought about Laura’s humble beginnings in the blond-brick house and the dream that took her to L.A., only to have everything she had and had hoped for taken away. It made Bosch angry. He felt an old familiar fire start to burn inside.
“Okay, Irfan,” he finally said. “Take me to the airport.”
23
TUX BY LUX was on Beverly Drive south of Wilshire, which put it on the more economical side of Beverly Hills. It looked like a business that moved a lot of product, as opposed to the by-appointment-only salons on Rodeo Drive that catered to clients headed to the Oscars and theVanity Fairafter-party.
Ballard sat in her city ride, sipping her coffee from Go Get Em Tiger, and waited for the front glass door of Tux by Lux to be unlocked for the day. It was 9:50.
Her phone rang and she saw it was Bosch. She took the call but kept her eyes on the glass door.
“Just checking in,” Bosch said. “I have the campaign button and am at the airport ready to board.”
“Sounds good,” Ballard said. “How was Juanita?”
“Fully cooperative but sick. She’s dying.”
“What?”
“Terminal cancer. I don’t know how much time she’s got left, but it didn’t look like a lot. No pressure but she said she’s hanging on because you gave her hope. She wants to live to see somebody get charged.”
“Oh, great, no pressure at all. What kind of cancer?”
“I didn’t ask. The kind that shrivels you up in the end.”
“God. Well, all we can do is do what we can do. I hope we make a case and she’s still alive to know it.”
“You in the car? I hear traffic.”
Ballard told him what she was doing, and as she spoke, she saw a man in his forties come to the glass door of the tuxedo store, unlock it at the bottom, and enter.
“I think he just opened the store,” she said. “I should get in there before any customers do.”
“I’ll let you go,” Bosch said. “But when you get back to Ahmanson, can you prime forensics on what’s coming? Maybe they can send a print car out to do it right there so we know whether this was a complete waste of time.”
“Will do.”
“Good luck.”
They disconnected and Ballard got out of the car. She was pleased that she had not said “Roger that” to Bosch’s request about forensics.
Ballard entered the store, carrying a file with two photos in it. Racks of tuxedos lined the wall on the right, and floor-to-ceiling shelves of white shirts lined the left. There was a mirrored fitting area in the back and a checkout station in front. Two glass cases with bow ties in one and assorted cuff links in the other extended from either side of the cashier’s desk.
There was no sign of the man Ballard had seen unlock and enter the store.
“Hello?” she called out loudly.
