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“Then let’s see where you are Monday morning. I need to get to the lab.”
Hatteras frowned. She wanted the moment.
“Maybe something will break by then, Colleen,” Ballard said. “We’ll talk first thing Monday.”
“Fine,” Hatteras asked. “Did you just fire Bosch?”
She blurted out the last part and Ballard was pleased to know that the interview room play had worked.
“I’m not sure yet,” she said.
“I think he’s a good man at heart,” Hatteras said. “I feel it.”
“Well, he’s got to be a better team player or he’s out.”
“I’m sure he will be. My sense is he knows that.”
“Then, good.”
Ballard threw a backpack strap over her shoulder and looked at the others in the pod. They all had their heads down and were acting like they were deep in work and had not been listening to the skirmish with Bosch.
“Hey, everybody,” she said. “I just want to say I appreciate all the hours and days put in this week. It’s been above and beyond the call and you should know it does not go unnoticed. Have a good night.”
With that she turned and headed to the exit.
26
BOSCH POSITIONED HIS car at the curb on Los Angeles Street, a half block from the exit gate at the City Hall parking garage. Ballard had also run a DMV vehicle registration on Nelson Hastings and passed on the descriptors and license plate number of his personal vehicle. Unfortunately, Bosch was waiting for a black 2020 Tesla Model 3 and was well aware that the color, make, and model he was looking for was very popular on the streets of L.A. He would need to confirm he had the right car by license plate number and had already followed two cars out of the garage, only to catch up and then eliminate them.
It was now 6:40 p.m. He had been waiting and watching for two hours and was worried that he had missed Hastings’s exit. He pulled his phone, did an internet search, and then made a call. A woman answered.
“Councilman Jake Pearlman’s office, how can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, is Nelson still there?” Bosch asked.
Bosch said it in a casual voice that he hoped suggested familiarity.
“He is here but he’s in a meeting with the councilman,”the woman said. “Can I take your name and ask what this is regarding?”
“Uh, it’s just a streetlight issue,” Bosch said. “He knows about it. I’ll call back Monday.”
He disconnected. At least he knew he had not missed Hastings’s exit. He settled in for a longer wait, keeping an eye on his sideview mirror for a traffic cop who had already told him once he was in a no-parking zone and needed to move on.
Twenty minutes further into the vigil, Bosch got a call and recognized the 208 area code for Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. He accepted the call.
“This is Bosch.”
“It’s Dubose. You left me a message.”
“I did. And my partner left two before that. Made us wonder why retirement up there keeps you so busy you can’t find time to return a call from your old department.”
“Fuck my old department, Bosch. It never gave one shit about me. I’m returning the calls now. What do you want?”
“I want to solve the Laura Wilson case.”
“We worked Wilson hard. But sometimes the breaks don’t go your way. We never solved it, end of story.”
“Not for her family. The story doesn’t ever end.”
