Bosch hesitated. He had both a print kit and swab kit in his backpack. Ballard had given them to him when she walked him out of the Ahmanson Center. Under evidence protocols, he knew he should take Juanita’s fingerprints and a DNA swab so she could be excluded from anything that might be found on the campaign button. But he was hesitant about putting this frail Black woman through that and possibly making her feel victimized by the investigation of her own daughter’s murder. He decided to pass on the protocols.

“You said you didn’t even touch the button, right?” he asked.

“No, I saw it there and didn’t go near it, like you told me,” Juanita said. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. Everything’s good. Then I think that’s it and I can get out of your hair.”

“What happens now?”

“Well, I go back to Los Angeles and, like I said, I’ll get this into forensics today. If we get lucky, we get a print that is not your daughter’s and run it down, see who handled the button, maybe find out who gave it to her. Either Detective Ballard or I will keep you informed of our progress.”

“Okay. Because I’m not sure how much more I can wait, you know?”

“I know it’s difficult. You have waited a long, long time, and believe me, I know what that’s like.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m on a clock, Detective Bosch. I have cancer. A terminal cancer and I want to know before … the end.”

Bosch realized that she was not an old lady as he had initially thought. She was sick. He guessed that the head wrap probably hid the baldness that was the result of the brutal assault of anticancer treatment. He was immediately embarrassed by his gaffe in saying he would get out of her hair.

“I’m sorry,” Bosch whispered.

“I had given up and was prepared to die,” Juanita said. “Then the woman detective called and it gave me hope. I will hang on, Detective Bosch, until you can give me an answer.”

“I understand. We will move quickly. That’s all I can promise.”

“That’s all I need. Thank you.”

Bosch nodded. Juanita led him back to the front door, where they shook hands and said goodbye. From the front stoop Bosch saw no car waiting for him on the street.

“Shit,” he whispered. “No stars for you, Irfan.”

He walked down the steps and pulled his phone to open the ride app and try to get another car. Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention and he looked up to see Irfan’s car gliding to a stop at the curb. His window was down.

“I went to refuel,” he called.

Bosch got in the back seat. He handed five twenties over the seat to the driver.

“Hold here for a second,” he said.