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The key was to make sure Hastings didn’t leave with his coffee cup. They needed that for his DNA.
Ballard paced in a small pattern next to the wall of the GCM’s parking garage while going over the story in her head. The news that Hastings had had a kidney removed in 2008 shot new momentum into the quiet investigation she and Bosch were conducting. The stakes had grown exponentially in the last few hours and she was now sure that she would be sitting very soon having coffee with a serial killer. She had to be careful not to stir any suspicion in Hastings, nothing that would cause him to flee or otherwise act out after their conversation.
At 2:31 the green-light text came in from Bosch.
He’s halfway through his cup. You’re good to go.
She put her phone away and immediately rounded the corner onto Hill Street. The open entry to the massive gathering of food and beverage stalls and butcher and produce shops was on the left. Across the street was the lower landing of Angels Flight, the block-long funicular that carried passengers up and down steep Bunker Hill. Ballard could see Hastings at a small stainless-steel table with his back to her approach.
She tapped him on the shoulder.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Airport traffic. Do you want a top-off?”
She had to ask the question even though she was hoping for a no.
“I shouldn’t even be drinking coffee this late in the day,” Hastings said. “It’ll have me up all night.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back,” Ballard said.
There was no line for midafternoon coffee. Ballard quickly ordered a cup of plain black coffee at the counter. As she waited, she casually looked around and saw Bosch at a table by the neon mural on the east wall of the market. He was in Hastings’s blind, even though there was no evidence to suggest Hastings knew who Bosch was.
Coffee in hand, Ballard sat down at the table with Hastings. She noticed that his cup was almost empty. The barista had written “Nelson” on the side of the paper cup, which would make it easy to identify should he throw it in the trash. But like her own cup, it had a corrugated paper sleeve around it. Whilethat would be an impediment to collecting fingerprints from the cup, she anticipated that they would still be able to collect Hastings’s DNA through saliva and epithelial cells.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” she said.
“Not a problem,” Hastings said. “So, what’s so important you could only tell me face-to-face?”
Ballard nodded and took a sip of hot coffee to buy some time as she mentally went over the script she had worked out with Bosch.
“As I said, it’s a delicate matter,” she said. “I’m well aware that the Open-Unsolved Unit is in existence only because of Councilman Pearlman and that any perceived hint of scandal could hurt him as well as the unit.”
“What perceived hint of scandal, Detective?” Hastings pressed.
“I talked to Sandy Kramer. And while it was pretty clear that there is no love lost between you two, Kramer is still loyal to Jake Pearlman.”
“Exactly right, no love lost. Why would you talk to that asshole?”
“This is a homicide investigation. It goes where it goes.”
“You talked to him about the girl with the button in her drawer?”
“The woman, yes. Laura Wilson.”
“The woman. Okay, what did Kramer say?”
“Well, when I asked him about Laura and showed him the photo, he said he remembered her.”
“That’s it?”
“No. He said he thought she might have volunteered and that I should ask Jake because he knew her, too.”
Hastings immediately pushed his cup to the side of the table like he was finished with it. And he shook his head.
“No way,” he said. “I would have seen it. I don’t know what he is now, but Kramer was a drunk back then. That was why he eventually had to go when Jake got serious about politics.”
“How can you know for sure?” Ballard asked. “You weren’t there then.”
“I was there, and I’m telling you, there was no Laura Wilson.”
