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.”
“Yeah, that’s too bad. But everything we did, everything we knew about the murder, is in the book. I got nothing to add. Goodbye.”
“Don’t hang up.”
“I can’t help you, Bosch.”
“You don’t know that. Not until you hear me out. There’s another murder.”
Dubose said nothing and Bosch waited.
“When?” Dubose finally said.
“It was eleven years before, actually,” Bosch said. “We just connected it through DNA.”
“Where?”
“Hollywood Division. The foothills, like Wilson.”
“Black girl?”
“White. Does that make a difference?”
“No, I was just trying to get the details.”
“Did you think race had something to do with Wilson’s murder?”
“Not that we knew.”
“Did it play a part in the investigation?”
“What are you saying, Bosch?”
“Nothing. I’m just asking questions. Tell me something about the investigation that’s not in the murder book.”
“There’s nothing.”
“There always is. Reports not written, dead ends not explained. Why didn’t you run with the blood in the urine?”
“The what?”
“You heard me. You got the DNA off blood in the urine. It meant there was disease but there’s nothing in the book about a follow-up.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? What were we supposed to do? That could have meant anything. A solid punch in the gut will put blood in your piss. What, we were supposed to go to every hospital and dialysis clinic in the city and say, ‘Give us a list of your patients’? Fuck you, Bosch. We did the due diligence on the case and—”
“Nelson Hastings. That name ever come up?”
“Nelson…who?”
“Hastings. The name’s not in the book. He was around thirty at the time, just out of the military. Does the name mean anything to you?”
“No, never heard of him.”
“Think you’d remember if he had come up?”
“If he came up, then his name would be in the book. We left nothing out. Are we done?”
“Yeah, sure, Dubose. We’re done.”
“Good.”
Dubose disconnected.
Bosch had kept his eyes on the garage exit during the call. He never saw a black Tesla emerge. He now started to grind on the conversation with Dubose. The fact that the retired detective had brought up checking hospitals and dialysis clinics told Bosch that Dubose and his partner had probably considered such an avenue of investigation and had dismissed it. His upset with Bosch was probably based in his guilt for not pursuing it. The stone left unturned—Bosch knew that detectives carried such guilt and regret all the way to the grave.
He was about to call Ballard and tell her about the call from Dubose, when he saw a quick procession of cars come out of the City Hall garage. The third one in line was a black Tesla. Bosch put down his phone, pulled his car away from the curb, and followed. There was a red light at 1st Street and he caught up, confirming the license plate number. It was Hastings’s car, but the glass was tinted too dark for him to be able to confirm it was the man whose photograph was on the staff page of the city councilman’s website.
The Tesla turned right on 1st and headed north and out of downtown, the driver choosing surface streets over the rush-hour-choked Hollywood Freeway. One-car follows were always difficult, especially when the one car was a thirty-year-old Cherokee with distinctive square body styling. Bosch hung back as much as he could but knew that if he missed one traffic light, he could easily lose Hastings. Bosch had gotten his home address from Ballard, but he was hoping there would be a stop-off somewhere along the way that would result in a DNA deposit on a coffee cup, food wrapper, or pizza crust. Shed skin cells contained the needed DNA. All Hastings had to do was handle an object and leave it behind for collection.
The Tesla eventually made its way up to Sunset Boulevard and then headed west toward the descending sun. Bosch knew from the data Ballard had sent that Hastings lived on Vista near the lower entrance to Runyon Canyon Park. He was disappointed that home appeared to be the Tesla’s destination. That meant there would likely be no DNA collection this night.
But then the Tesla drove past Vista without making the turn. A few blocks later, it stopped at the curb in front of the Almor Wine & Spirits shop. Bosch pulled to the curb a half block back and watched as a man jumped out of the car and went quickly into the store. Bosch pulled up and into the parking lot on the side where the Tesla driver wouldn’t see his car when he left. Bosch put on a Dodgers cap, got out, and went into the shop. The hat would give him some degree of camouflage, but he was banking on Hastings’s not having seen him before or having looked up a photo when he learned from Ballard about the latest addition to the Open-Unsolved Unit. Even if he had looked at a photo, it would be an old one from Bosch’s LAPD file.
Once in the store, Bosch confirmed the driver was Hastings and was at least momentarily relieved that he hadn’t blown the surveillance.
Hastings was standing in front of the red-wine racks. Bosch moved into the shop and stood near a floor display of white wines. Over the top of the display, he saw Hastings reach for a bottle of red and hold it in his palm while he read the back label. He soon put the bottle back on its shelf and picked up another. He read the back label of this one as well and seemed to like what he saw. He turned and went to the counter to purchase it.
Bosch noted the location of the first bottle Hastings had handled. He knew he could come back for it. But at the moment he wanted to be in place to continue following Hastings. He turned and left the shop to return to his car.
Bosch knew it was likely that Hastings was simply headed to his nearby home to start off the weekend with a bottle of wine. But he couldn’t risk losing him if not. It was important to know where Hastings was located, should it be decided to confront or even arrest him during the weekend. Bosch had to see the surveillance through.
A few minutes later, Hastings left the shop, carrying his bottle by the neck. He did not look back in Bosch’s direction and hopped into his car. Bosch could only see the back end of the Tesla past the front corner of the shop. When it disappeared as Hastings moved back into traffic, Bosch drove out of the lot and followed.
Hastings didn’t go home. He continued west on Sunset, crossing Fairfax and Crescent Heights and then cruising the length of the Strip until he got to Sunset Plaza and turned north again into the hills. He soon made a turn onto St. Ives and immediately parked at the curb in front of a house.
Bosch drove past St. Ives and several homes up the hill before making a U-turn and coasting back down to the corner. He held in a position where he had a narrow and partially hidden view of the Tesla and the entrance to the house it was parked in front of. He waited and watched but Hastings didn’t get out of the car. Bosch began to wonder if this was a ploy by Hastings to determine whether he was being followed.
But then the house’s garage door started to open and Bosch saw a car coming up Sunset Plaza with its turn indicator flashing. He quickly slapped down his window visor and rubbed his forehead with a hand in front of his face as the car turned in front of him onto St. Ives. He zeroed in on the license plate as it passed and watched as the car pulled into the garage. Hastings got out of his car and walked toward the garage, bottle of wine in hand. Hastings entered, and a few moments later the garage closed.
Bosch quickly grabbed a pad and pen out of the center console and wrote the license plate number down. He then called Ballard.
“Harry.”
“Where are you?”
“Home. What’s up?”
“Can you run a plate for me? Hastings didn’t go home. He bought a bottle of wine and brought it to a house above Sunset Plaza. I saw a car pull into the garage and I got the plate.”
“Give it to me and I’ll call you back.”
Bosch disconnected after reading the number off his pad. He checked the house and saw no activity behind the drawn curtains. His gut told him that Hastings had arrived for a romantic dinner with someone and was probably in for the night. Bosch knew that there was a possibility that Ballard would want to continue the surveillance in the morning and possibly through the weekend.
He knew from memory that there was a Midway car rental on Sunset near Book Soup. He looked it up on his phone and called to reserve a car. He knew it would be pressing his luck to continue following Hastings with a 1992 hunter green Cherokee. He needed to switch things up.
Ballard had called while he was on the phone with Midway and he had ignored it. He called her back after securing the rental reservation.
“Is that house you’re talking about on St. Ives?” she asked.
“Yep,” Bosch said. “What did you get?”
“The plate is registered to Rita Ford on St. Ives. She’s Pearlman’s political adviser. Short, white, long dark hair—that her?”
“I didn’t see her, because she pulled into the garage. Just got the plate.”
“Well, looks like we have a little interoffice relationship going. I wonder whether Pearlman knows. It could blow up on him if it ever goes sideways or becomes public knowledge.”
Bosch didn’t offer an opinion. He didn’t care about something that to him amounted to gossip.
“My gut tells me that Hastings is in for the night,” he said. “He may go home later but my guess is probably not. Not if they’re drinking a bottle of wine.”
“Good point,” Ballard said.
“So, you want me to stay or pick it up in the morning? I just rented a car. I’ll have a different look tomorrow in case you’re worried about the Cherokee.”
“That’s smart. You make the call. Leave if you want to.”
“I saw him holding a bottle of wine in the shop. I could go back and get it, drop it off so you can have them look for a palm print in the morning.”
“Wow, yes. Go get that bottle, Harry, and let’s hope nobody beat you to it.”
Bosch hesitated for a moment but then put words to something else he had been contemplating.
“And, you know, since he’s here with her…”
He stopped.
“What?” Ballard asked.
“I was thinking about his house,” Bosch said. “Maybe I could see if there’s something there.”
“Harry, don’t even think about it. You’re not a private eye anymore and we need to do this by the book. There are rules to surreptitious collection. The item collected must be discarded in public. Don’t go into his house. I mean it.”
“What if I swing by and just check the trash cans? The courts have ruled that trash is fair game.”
“If it’s out on a public street. So Harry, don’t go near his house. I want to hear you say you won’t.”
“I won’t go by his house, okay? It was just a suggestion.”
“A bad one.”
“Okay, so you’ll be home? I’m going to go get that bottle of wine.”
“I’ll be here.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Bosch pulled up in front of Ballard’s apartment complex in Los Feliz. Ballard was waiting in the street because he had given her a heads-up call. She had her dog, Pinto, on a leash at her side.
Bosch handed the bottle of Portlandia Pinot Noir out the window to her. It was in a brown paper bag from Almor Wine & Spirits.
“Tell them there could be a palm print on the front label,” he said. “He held it in his palm when he was reading the back label.”
“Got it.”
She opened the bag, pulled the bottle up by the neck, and studied the front label.
“Looks like good stuff,” she said.
“Must be,” Bosch said. “But too expensive for him. He went with something cheaper.”
“Rita Ford is not worth the good stuff—I wonder if she knows that.”
“There’s probably a lot she doesn’t know about Hastings.”
“Thanks for this, Harry. I’ll see who’s working tomorrow and take it in first thing. Maybe they’ll have something on the campaign button by then.”
“Let me know.”
“And I’ll add this to your expense report.”
She smiled and Bosch nodded.
“Yeah, put it on there,” he said.
Ballard stepped back and Bosch drove off.
He was in his daughter’s neighborhood. He decided to drive by her house, even though he assumed she was still working her mid-watch shift. The small house she shared with her boyfriend was dark. Bosch idled for a few moments and then drove on, pulling his phone up to call her.
The call went to message.
“Hey, Mads, just wanted to let you know I’m back in L.A. I’m around if you need anything or want to grab a coffee or a beer or dinner. Be safe. I love you.”
He disconnected, knowing she probably wouldn’t call him back or take him up on his offer. He continued driving into the night.