Page 133 of Desert Star

McShane’s grip on the gun weakened and finally released. The weapon bounced off Bosch’s shoulder and clattered to the floor. Then McShane started to slide down the wall, his eyes holding a surprised look in them.

Bosch let him go and he dropped into a sitting position, propped against the wall, still pierced by the screwdriver. His blood soon flowed down his body and to the floor.

Bosch kicked the gun across the floor, stepped back, and watched McShane bleed out, his eyes losing their focus and finally staring blankly at nothing at all.

53

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 LAPDand 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.

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