The red-eye landed at Miami International at 6 a.m. and Ballard was on the road to Key West within an hour, a large coffee in the cup holder of her rental car. Her biggest concern at the moment was staying alert during the four-hour drive and keeping the rental between the lines on the Overseas Highway. The plane from L.A. had been full and she had booked one of the last seats. She’d been assigned a middle seat in economy and ended up bookended by two men who had no trouble falling asleep and snoring for the whole flight.
She, in turn, didn’t sleep a wink. Instead, she thought about Harry Bosch and what he might be doing so far from home.
Halfway down the archipelago to her destination, she moved out of range from the Miami radio stations and ended up listening to a Florida Keys weather station, which repeated the same news every fifteen minutes. An unusual pre–hurricane season storm had formed off the coast of Africa and was heading toward the Caribbean. The anchor at the weather station in Marathon said they were watching this development closely.
She was less than ten miles from Key West and about to call the KWPD, when her phone buzzed. It was a call from L.A., where it was not yet 8 a.m. She took the call.
“This is Renée Ballard.”
“Mick Haller. You left me a message last night.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Sounds like you’re driving. Can you talk?”
“I can talk. I’m a detective with the LAPD. I’ve worked with Harry Bosch.”
“My brother from another mother. I know who you are, Ballard. Is this about Harry? Is he all right?”
She didn’t want to get into the possibility that Bosch was not all right.
“It’s about a case I think you should take on,” she said.
“A little unusual to get a referral from the police,” Haller said. “But go ahead, talk to me.”
“Let me start by saying this is a nonreferral referral. You can’t say I tipped you to the case.”
“I understand.”
“I need to hear you say it.”
“It’s a nonreferral referral. If I move forward with whatever it is you’re about to tell me, your involvement ends with this call and I will not reveal it to anyone. Good?”
“Good.”
“Then talk to me. I have to get ready for court.”
“Olga Reyes. LAPD case number zero-nine-dash-zero-four-one-eight. You should write it down. She was murdered in 2009. Her boyfriend, Jorge Ochoa, was wrongfully accused and convicted of murder.”
“A habeas case. You know how hard a habeas case is?”
“But you’ve gotten innocent men out. Harry told me.”
“Yeah, once in a blue moon.”
“This is a blue moon, then. Ochoa is innocent, and the LAPD and the D.A.’s Office know it. They’re sitting on it because of the recall election.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Are you still there?” Ballard asked.
“I’m here,” Haller said. “Go on.”
“I run the Open-Unsolved Unit. You heard about the Ted Rawls case?”
“Of course. I also heard it was Harry who was on one side of that gun fight. I’ve left him five messages this week, but he hasn’t called me back.”
“He probably didn’t get them. His phone is still in evidence. Anyway, Ochoa was convicted of killing his girlfriend. It was a slam dunk DNA case. Only he didn’t kill her. Rawls did.”
“So the shorthand is, you found evidence linking Rawls to Olga Reyes and the D.A.’s sitting on it.”
“You’re good.”
“Good and pissed off. This guy Jorge is where now?”
“Corcoran.”
“Okay, what do I subpoena? Who do I subpoena?”
“You subpoena me and all evidence related to the Olga Reyes case. I gave you the number. We found items missing from the Reyes crime scene in a dumpster behind Rawls’s business office. He had just dumped it when he saw that Harry was watching him. The rest you know from the news.”
Haller made a slight whistling sound, then spoke.
“What’s the evidence?”
“Her nightgown and a bracelet Jorge gave her. I went to see his mother and she confirmed the bracelet.”
“That’s how I get into this. I go see the mother, sign her up, and take it from there. Nobody will ever know the tip came from you.”
“I appreciate that. Also, we have the murder weapon, a hammer. Rawls kept it all. You can match the hammer to the autopsy report.”
“You’re putting this on a silver platter for me. You got the mother’s name and address handy?”
“As soon as I’m off the road, I’ll send them to you.”
“Okay, then. I think I’m good to go.”
“Thank you for doing this.”
“A pleasure, Detective Ballard. You’ll be hearing from me, and if I get this into court and put you on the stand, you may regret this phone call.”
“I’m not worried about that. If you treat me as a hostile witness, it will be good cover. But you’ll also be calling Harry Bosch. He worked this with me.”
“I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
After disconnecting, Ballard called the KWPD to arrange for an officer to meet her at the Pier House so she could have the door to Bosch’s room opened by security. She wanted to read the note he had sealed and addressed to her. She believed it would give her insight into where Bosch was and what he was up to.
When she got to the Pier House fifteen minutes later, there was already a KWPD car in the parking lot. Ballard parked next to it and entered the lobby and found two uniformed officers waiting for her with the resort’s head of security. She showed her badge and credentials, and the resort security man, Munoz, said he had a key card to Bosch’s room ready to go. They all walked out a rear door of the lobby and onto a pathway through a maze of lush tropical trees and plants, around a pool, and toward a building containing four floors of rooms.
They squeezed into a small elevator, because the security man said it was closer than the stairs to room 202.
At the door of the room, the security man knocked and leaned his head toward the doorjamb to listen.
“Resort security,” he called out. “Mr. Bosch? Security.”
He waited a few seconds and then knocked again. He pulled a key card from his pocket to unlock the door.
“Security,” he said. “We are opening the door.”