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“I think you need to call him.”
“Who?”
“Hastings. Tell him that Kramer just called you and changed his story. Maybe that will calm him down. We kind of left Kramer’s ass blowin’ in the wind on this. Hastings should know there is no threat.”
“Like, now?”
“Yeah, call him, see if he answers. We have to give Kramer some cover.”
Ballard pulled her phone and called Hastings. He answered and she quickly explained that she now knew that the information she had received about Pearlman knowing Wilson was wrong. She apologized for not confirming or debunking the intel before bringing it to him. She then listened quietly for almost a minute as Hastings had his say and disconnected without giving her a chance to respond.
“Sounded like that went well,” Bosch said.
“Right,” Ballard said. “Let’s just say that I hope we get that DNA back before he can have me fired Monday.”
Bosch nodded.
“Let’s hope Darcy comes through,” he said.
Ballard leaned back and looked out the window into the waiting hall. Union Station was one of the city’s lasting beauties.
“Think how many people have come through this place to get to this city, Harry,” she said. “People like Laura Wilson, bringing their hopes and dreams.”
“She came from Chicago by train?” Bosch asked.
“She kept a journal. It was in the murder book. She took the train to save money. It took two days and she saw the Rocky Mountains. Then she got here and got killed. How fucking unfair was that?”
“Murder is never fair. I’d like to read that journal.”
“I have it at my desk at Ahmanson.”
Bosch joined her in looking out the window into the hall. Dozens of people from all walks of life moved across the Spanish-tile floor, either heading away from L.A. or having arrived at their destination, suitcases and dreams in hand. He pictured Laura Wilson arriving and moving wide-eyed through the great hall to the doors that opened to the City of Angels. She could not have known that it was her final destination.
31
THE OCEAN WAS as smooth as a fitted sheet on a bed. Ballard had brought both surfboard and paddleboard with her so she would be ready for any kind of surface. She had found a parking spot on the Pacific Coast Highway at the west end of La Costa Beach in Malibu and was close enough to the water to be able to tell it was a paddle day. This was good. It meant Pinto would get to ride with her rather than being leashed to a tent pole while she rode the bigger waves.
It was a Sunday but early enough that the beach was not crowded. Ballard opened the Defender’s hatch and sat on the tail while working on her wet suit. Pinto was still in his travel crate next to her.
She was just about to slide her phone into its waterproof case, when it started to buzz. The caller was Darcy Troy and Ballard’s pulse quickened.
“Darcy, give me the good news,” Ballard said.
This was met with silence.
“Darcy? Hello?”
“I’m here. And I don’t have good news, Renée. We got a good sample from the cup, and I’m sorry but it is no match to the two previous cases.”
Now it was Ballard who went silent. She had fully invested in Hastings as their guy.
“Renée, you still there?”
“I don’t understand. He’s the guy. He lost a kidney. He’s been shaky on his stories. I can’t believe this. Are you sure, Darcy? Could there be some kind of mistake?”
“No, no mistake. I’m sorry. But what do you mean when you say he lost a kidney?”
“We have his VA records. Three years after the Laura Wilson murder, he had a radical neph-whatever-you-call-it.”
