The Dark Hours by Michael Connelly PDF
The Dark Hours by Michael Connelly PDF
The Dark Hours by Michael Connelly PDF
Fiction
The Black Echo
The Black Ice
The Concrete Blonde
The Last Coyote
The Poet
Trunk Music
Blood Work
Angels Flight
Void Moon
A Darkness More Than Night
City of Bones
Chasing the Dime
Lost Light
The Narrows
The Closers
The Lincoln Lawyer
Echo Park
The Overlook
The Brass Verdict
The Scarecrow
Nine Dragons
The Reversal
The Fifth Witness
The Drop
The Black Box
The Gods of Guilt
The Burning Room
The Crossing
The Wrong Side of Goodbye
The Late Show
Two Kinds of Truth
Dark Sacred Night
The Night Fire
Fair Warning
The Law of Innocence
Non-fiction
Crime Beat
Ebooks
Suicide Run
Angle of Investigation
Mulholland Dive
The Safe Man
Switchblade
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
First published in Australia and New Zealand by Allen & Unwin in 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the
Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is
the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it)
has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the
Act.
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART ONE
MIDNIGHT MEN
1
It was supposed to rain for real and that would have put a
damper on the annual rain of lead. But the forecast was
wrong. The sky was blue-black and clear. And Renée Ballard
braced for the onslaught, positioning herself on the north
side of the division under the shelter of the Cahuenga
overpass. She would have preferred being alone but was
riding with a partner, and a reluctant partner at that.
Detective Lisa Moore of the Hollywood Division Sexual
Assault Unit was a day-shift veteran who just wanted to be
home with her boyfriend. But it was always all hands on deck
on New Year’s Eve. Tactical alert: everyone in the
department in uniform and working twelves. Ballard and
Moore had been working since 6 p.m. and it had been quiet.
But it was now about to strike midnight on the last day of the
year and the trouble would begin. Added to that, the
Midnight Men were out there somewhere. Ballard and her
reluctant partner needed to be ready to move quickly when
the call came in.
“Do we have to stay here?” Moore asked. “I mean, look at
these people. How can they live like this?”
Ballard surveyed the makeshift shelters made of discarded
tarps and construction debris that lined both sides of the
underpass. She saw a couple of Sterno cook fires and people
milling about at their meager encampments. It was so
crowded that some shanties were even pressed up against
the mobile toilets the city had put on the sidewalks to
preserve some semblance of dignity and sanitation in the
area. North of the overpass was a residential zone of
apartments fronting the hillside area known as the Dell. After
multiple reports of people defecating in the streets and yards
of the neighborhood, the city came through with the portable
toilets. A humanitarian effort, it was called.
“You ask that like you think they all want to be living under
an overpass,” Ballard said. “Like they have a lot of choices.
Where are they going to go? The government gives them
toilets. It takes their shit away but not much else.”
“Whatever,” Moore said. “It’s such a blight — every
overpass in the fucking city. It’s so third world. People are
going to start leaving the city because of this.”
“They already have,” Ballard said. “Anyway, we’re staying
here. I’ve spent the last four New Year’s Eves under here and
it’s the safest place to be when the shooting starts.”
They were quiet for a few moments after that. Ballard had
thought about leaving herself, maybe going back to Hawaii.
It wasn’t because of the intractable problem of homelessness
that gripped Los Angeles. It was everything. The city, the
job, the life. It had been a bad year with the pandemic and
social unrest and violence. The police department had been
vilified, and she along with it. She’d been spat on,
figuratively and literally, by the people she thought she stood
for and protected. It was a hard lesson, and a sense of
futility had set upon her and was deep in the marrow now.
She needed some kind of a break. Maybe to go track down
her mother in the mountains of Maui and try to reconnect
after so many years.
She took one of her hands off the wheel and held her
sleeve to her nose. It was her first time back in uniform since
the protests. She could make out the smell of tear gas. She
had dry-cleaned the uniform twice but the odor was baked in,
permanent. It was a strong reminder of the year that had
been.
The pandemic and protests had changed everything. The
department went from being proactive to reactive. And the
change had somehow cast Ballard adrift. She had found
herself more than once thinking about quitting. That is, until
the Midnight Men came along. They had given her purpose.
Moore checked her watch. Ballard noticed and glanced at
the dashboard clock. It was off by an hour, but doing the
math told her it was two minutes till midnight.
“Oh, here we go,” Moore said. “Look at this guy.”
She was looking out her window at a man approaching the
car. It was below 60 degrees but he wore no shirt, and he
was holding his dirt-caked pants up with his hand. He wore
no mask either. Moore had her window cracked but now hit
the button and closed and sealed the car.
The homeless man knocked on her window. They could
hear him through the glass.
“Hey, officers, I got a problem here.”
They were in Ballard’s unmarked car but she had engaged
the flashing grille lights when they parked in the median
under the overpass. Plus they were in full uniform.
“Sir, I can’t talk to you without a mask,” Moore said loudly.
“Go get a mask.”
“But I been ripped off,” the man said. “That sumbitch o’er
there took my shit when I was sleepin’.”
“Sir, I can’t help you until you get a mask,” Moore said.
“I don’t have no fucking mask,” he said.
“Then I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “No mask, no ask.”
The man punched the window, his fist hitting the glass in
front of Moore’s face. She jerked back even though it had not
been a punch intended to break the glass.
“Sir, step back from the car,” Moore commanded.
“Fuck you,” he said.
“Sir, if I have to get out, you’re going to County,” Moore
said. “If you don’t have corona now, you’ll get it there. You
want that?”
The man started to walk away.
“Fuck you,” he said again. “Fuck the police.”
“Like I never heard that before,” Moore said.
She checked her watch again, and Ballard looked back at
the dash clock. It was now the final minute of 2020, and for
Moore and most people in the city and the world, the year
couldn’t end soon enough.
“Jesus Christ, can we move to another spot?” Moore
complained.
“Too late,” Ballard said. “I told you, we’re safe under here.”
“Not from these people,” Moore said.
2
Rodriguez used the lights but not the siren to speed their
drive to the hospital. Ballard used the minutes to call her
lieutenant at home to update him. Derek Robinson-Reynolds,
the OIC of Hollywood detectives, picked up immediately,
having texted Ballard his request for the update.
“Ballard, I was expecting to hear from you sooner than
this.”
“Sorry, L-T. We had several witnesses to talk to before we
could get a handle on this. I also just heard that our victim is
DOA.”
“Then I’ll have to get West Bureau out. I know they’re
already running full squad on a two-bagger from yesterday.”
Homicides were handled out of West Bureau. Robinson-
Reynolds was ready to pass the investigation off but knew it
would not be well received by his counterpart at West Bureau
Homicide.
“Sir, you can do that, of course, but I haven’t determined
what this is yet. There were a lot of people shooting guns at
midnight. Not sure if this was accidental or intentional. I’m
heading to the hospital now to get a look at him.”
“Well, didn’t any of the witnesses see it?”
“Not the witnesses who stuck around. They just saw the
victim on the ground. Anybody who saw it happen scrammed
out of there before the unis got on scene.”
There was a pause as the lieutenant considered his next
move.
They were a block from the hospital. Ballard spoke before
Robinson-Reynolds responded.
“Let me run with it, L-T.”
Robinson-Reynolds remained silent. Ballard made her case.
“West Bureau is running on the two-bagger. We don’t even
know what this is yet. Let me stay with it and we’ll see where
it stands in the morning. I’ll call you then.”
The lieutenant finally spoke.
“I don’t know, Ballard. Not sure I want you capering out
there on your own.”
“I’m not alone. I’m with Lisa Moore, remember?”
“Right, right. Nothing on that tonight?”
He was asking about the Midnight Men.
“Not so far. We’re pulling into Hollywood Pres now. The
family of the victim is here.”
It pushed Robinson-Reynolds to make a decision.
“Okay, I’ll hold off on West Bureau. For now. Keep me
informed. No matter the hour, Ballard.”
“Roger that.”
“Okay, then.”
Robinson-Reynolds disconnected. Ballard’s phone buzzed
with a text as Rodriguez was pulling to a stop behind
Ballard’s car, which had been left by Moore in an ambulance
bay.
“Was that Dash?” Rodriguez asked. “What did he say?”
He was using the short name ascribed to Robinson-
Reynolds by most in the division when not addressing the
lieutenant personally. Ballard checked the text. It had come
from Moore: No English spoken here.
“He gave us the green light,” Ballard said.
“Us?” Rodriguez said.
“I’m probably going to need you in here too.”
“Sergeant Byron told me to double-time back.”
“Sergeant Byron’s not in charge of the investigation. I am,
and you’re with me until I say otherwise.”
“Roger that — as long as you tell him.”
“I will.”
Ballard found Moore in the ER waiting room, surrounded by
a group of crying women and one teenage boy. Raffa’s family
had just gotten the bad news about their husband and
father. A wife, three adult daughters, and the son were all
exhibiting various degrees of shock, grief, and anger.
“Oh, boy,” Rodriguez said as they approached.
Nobody liked intruding on the kind of trauma unexpected
death brings.
“I heard you want to be a detective someday, V-Rod,”
Ballard asked.
“Fuck, yeah,” Rodriguez responded.
“Okay, I want you to help Detective Moore interview the
family. Do more than translate. Ask the questions. Any
known enemies, his association with Las Palmas, who else
was at the shop tonight. Get names.”
“Okay, what about you? Where are — ”
“I need to check the body. Then I’ll be joining you.”
“Got it.”
“Good. Let Detective Moore know.”
Ballard split off from him and went to the check-in counter.
Soon she was led back to the nursing station that was in the
middle of the ER. It was surrounded by multiple examination
and treatment spaces separated by curtain walls. She asked
a nurse if the body of the gunshot victim had been moved
yet from a treatment space and was told that the hospital
was waiting for a coroner’s team to pick it up. The nurse
pointed her to a closed curtain.
Ballard pulled back the pastel-green curtain, entered the
single-bed examination space, and then closed the curtain
behind her. Javier Raffa’s body was faceup on the bed. There
had been no attempt to cover him. His shirt — a blue work
shirt with his name on an oval patch — was open and his
chest still showed conduit ointment, likely from paddles that
had been used in an attempt to revive him. There were also
whitish discolorations on the brown skin of his chest and
neck. His eyes were open, and there was a rubber device
extending from the mouth. Ballard knew it had been placed
in his mouth before the paddles were used.
Ballard pulled a pair of black latex gloves out of a
compartment on her equipment belt and stretched them on.
Using both hands, she gently turned the dead man’s head to
look for the entry wound. His hair was long and curly, but
she found the entry at the upper rear of his head under hair
matted by blood. Judging from its location, she doubted
there was an exit wound. The bullet was still inside, which in
terms of forensics was a break.
She leaned farther over the bed to look closely at the
wound. She guessed that it had been made by a small-
caliber bullet and noticed that some of the hair around it was
singed. It meant that the weapon had been held less than a
foot away when discharged. She saw specks of burnt
gunpowder in Javier Raffa’s hair.
In that moment, Ballard knew this had been no accident.
Raffa had been murdered. A killer had used the moment
when all eyes were cast upward to the midnight sky and
there was gunfire all around to hold a gun close to Raffa’s
head and pull the trigger. And in that moment, Ballard knew
she wanted the case, that she would find a way to keep this
conclusion to herself until she was too deeply embedded to
be removed.
She knew this could be the solve she needed to save
herself.
5
Ballard didn’t get back to the station until almost 3 a.m. She
went up the stairs off the back hallway and into the room
shared by the Gang and Vice units. It was long and
rectangular and usually empty because both units worked the
streets. But now the room was crowded. Officers from both
squads, in uniform like Ballard, sat behind desks and at
worktables going down the length of the room. Most of them
were not wearing masks. The large crowd could be explained
in a number of ways. First, it was difficult to work vice and
gangs in full uniform, as dictated by the department’s tactical
alert. This meant the alert, which was supposed to put as
many officers on the street as possible during the New Year’s
celebration, was having the opposite effect. It could also
mean that, because it was beyond the witching hours of
midnight to 2 a.m., everyone had returned to the house on
break. But Ballard knew that it could also be that this was
the new LAPD — officers stripped of the mandate of proactive
enforcement and waiting to be reactive, to hit the streets
only when it was requested and required, and only then
doing the minimum so as not to engender a complaint or
controversy.
To Ballard, much of the department had fallen into the
pose of a citizen caught in the middle of a bank robbery.
Head down, eyes averted, adhering to the warning: nobody
move, and nobody gets hurt.
She spotted Sergeant Rick Davenport at the end of one of
the worktables and headed toward him. He looked up from a
cell phone to see her coming, and a maskless smile of
recognition creased his face. He was mid-forties and had
been working gangs in the division for over a decade.
“Ballard,” he said. “I hear El Chopo got it tonight.”
Ballard stopped at the table.
“El Chopo?” she asked.
“That’s what we called Javier back in the day,” Davenport
said. “When he was a gangster and using his padre’s place as
a chop shop.”
“But not anymore?”
“He supposedly went straight after his wife started
dropping kids.”
“I was surprised I didn’t see you out at the scene tonight.
That why?”
“That and other things. Just doin’ what the people want.”
“Which is staying off the street?”
“It’s pretty clear if they can’t defund us, they want to de-
see us, right, Cordo?”
Davenport looked for affirmation to a gang cop named
Cordero.
“Right, Sergeant,” Cordero said.
Ballard pulled out the empty chair on Davenport’s right side
and sat down. She decided to get to the point.
“So, what can you tell me about Javier?” she asked. “Do
you believe he went straight? Would Las Palmas even allow
that?”
“The word is that twelve or fifteen years ago, he bought his
way out,” Davenport said. “And as far as we know, he’s been
clean and legit ever since.”
“Or too smart for you?”
Davenport laughed.
“There’s always that possibility.”
“Well, do you still have a file on the guy? Shake cards,
anything?”
“Oh, we’ve got a file. It’s probably a little dusty. Cordo, pull
the file on Javier Raffa and bring it to Detective Ballard.”
Cordero got up and walked to the line of four-drawer file
cabinets that ran the length of one side of the room.
“That’s how far this guy goes back,” Davenport said. “He’s
in the paper files.”
“So definitely not active?” Ballard pressed.
“Nope. And we would have known if he was. We follow
some of the OGs. If they were meeting, we would have seen
it.”
“How far up was Raffa before he dropped out?”
“Not far. He was a soldier. We never made a case on the
guy but we knew he was chopping stolen cars for the team.”
“How did you hear he bought his way out?”
Davenport shook his head like he couldn’t remember.
“Just the grapevine,” he said. “I can’t name you the snitch
offhand — it was a long time ago. But that was what was
said, and as far as we could tell, it was accurate.”
“How much does something like that cost?” Ballard asked.
“Can’t remember. It might be in the file.”
Cordero returned from the cabinets and handed a file to
Davenport instead of Ballard. He in turned handed it to
Ballard.
“Knock yourself out,” he said.
“Can I take this?” Ballard asked.
“As long as you bring it back.”
“Roger that.”
Ballard took the file, got up, and walked out. She had the
feeling that several of the men were watching as she left the
room. She was not popular in the office after a year of
cajoling and then demanding intel and help in her
investigations from people bent on doing as little as possible.
She went down the stairs and into the detective bureau,
where she saw Lisa Moore at her desk. She was typing on
her computer.
“You’re back,” Ballard said.
“No thanks to you,” Moore said. “You left me with those
people and that kid cop.”
“Rodriguez? He probably has five years on the job. He
worked Rampart before coming here.”
“Doesn’t matter. He looks like a kid.”
“Did you get anything good from the wife and daughters?”
“No, but I’m writing it up. Where is this going anyway?”
“I’m going to keep it for a bit. Send whatever you’ve got to
me.”
“Not to West Bureau?”
“They’re running all teams on a double murder. So I’ll work
this until they’re ready to take it.”
“And Dash is okay with that?”
“I talked to him. It’s not a problem.”
“What do you have there?”
She pointed to the file Ballard was carrying.
“And old Gang file on Raffa,” Ballard said. “Davenport said
he hasn’t been active in years, that he bought his way out
when he started a family.”
“Aw, isn’t that sweet,” Moore said.
The sarcasm was clear in her voice. Ballard had long
realized that Moore had lost her empathy. Working sex cases
full-time probably did that. Losing empathy for victims was a
self-protective measure, but Ballard hoped it never happened
to her. Police work could easily hollow you out. But she
believed that losing one’s empathy was losing one’s soul.
“Send me your reports when you’re ready to file,” Ballard
said.
“Will do,” Moore said.
“And nothing on the Midnight Men, right?”
“Not yet. Maybe they’re lying low tonight.”
“It’s still early. On Thanksgiving we didn’t get the callout till
dawn.”
“Wonderful. Can’t wait till dawn.”
The sarcasm again. Ballard ignored it and grabbed an
empty desk nearby. Because she worked the late show, she
didn’t have an assigned spot. She was expected to borrow a
desk in the room whenever she needed one. She looked at a
few of the knickknacks on the one shelf in the cubicle where
she sat and quickly realized it was the workstation of a
dayside Crimes Against Persons detective named Tom
Newsome. He loved baseball, and there were several
souvenir balls on little pedestals on the shelf. They had been
signed by Dodgers players past and present. The gem of the
collection was in a small plastic cube to protect it. It wasn’t
signed by a player. Instead the signature was from the man
who had called Dodgers games on radio and TV for more
than fifty years. Vin Scully was revered as the voice of the
city because he transcended baseball. Even Ballard knew who
he was, and she thought that Newsome was risking the ball
getting stolen, even in a police station.
Opening the file in front of her, Ballard was greeted by a
booking photo of Javier Raffa as a young man. He had died
at age thirty-eight, and the photo was from a 2003 arrest for
receiving stolen property. She read the details on the arrest
report the photo was clipped to. It said Raffa had been pulled
over in a 1977 Ford pickup truck with several used auto parts
in the bed. One of these parts — a trans-axle — still had the
manufacturing serial number embossed on it, and it was
traced to a Mercedes G-wagon reported stolen in the San
Fernando Valley the month before.
According to the records in the file, Raffa’s lawyer, listed as
Roger Mills, negotiated a disposition that got the twenty-one-
year-old Javier probation and community service in exchange
for a guilty plea. The case was then expunged from Raffa’s
record when he completed probation and 120 hours of
community service without issue. The file noted that his
community service included painting over gang graffiti on
freeway overpasses throughout the city.
It was the one and only arrest record in the file, although
there were several field interview cards paper-clipped
together there. These were all dated before the arrest and
went back to when Raffa was sixteen years old. Most of these
came out of basic gang rousts — patrol breaking up parties
or Hollywood Boulevard cruise lines. Officers taking down
names and associates, tattoos, and other descriptors to be
fed into Gang Intel files and databases. As the son of a body
shop owner, Raffa was always driving classic and restored
cars or low riders that were also described on the shake
cards.
From early on in the cards Raffa had the nickname El
Chopo ascribed to him. It was an obvious riff on the moniker
of one of the biggest cartel kingpins, known as El Chapo,
which meant Shorty in Spanish. One note that caught
Ballard’s eye and was repeated on the four cards written and
filed between 2000 and 2003 was the description of a tattoo
on the right side of Raffa’s neck. It depicted a white billiard
ball with an orange stripe and the number 13 — a reference
to Las Palmas 13 and its association with and deference to la
eMe, the prison gang also known as the Mexican Mafia. The
13 was a reference to M, the thirteenth letter of the alphabet.
Ballard thought about the discoloration she had seen on
Raffa’s neck. She realized it was laser scarring from when
he’d had the tattoo removed.
There was a photocopy of an intel report in the file dated
October 25, 2006, that was a bullet-point recounting of
multiple nuggets of unsubstantiated bits of gossip and
information from a confidential informant identified as LP3.
Ballard assumed that the informant was a Las Palmas insider.
She scanned through the separate entries and found the one
about Raffa.
Coming out of the station’s parking lot, Ballard went east one
block, passing the fire station, and took a left onto
Cahuenga. It was a straight shot up to the Cahuenga Pass,
where she saw the blue flashers up ahead at the intersection
with Odin. She pulled in behind the patrol car, which was
behind a dark coupe. Vitello and Smallwood stood between
the two cars with a man who had his wrists cuffed behind his
back.
Ballard got out with her rover in hand.
“Fellas,” she said. “What’s up?”
Smallwood signaled her to follow him to the front of the
coupe so they could talk out of earshot of the man in cuffs.
“Hey, Mallard, we got one of the dirtbags you’re looking
for,” Smallwood said.
Ballard ignored the play on her name from the officer
whose own name provided so much more comedy in the
division.
“What dirtbags?” Ballard asked.
“You know, the tag team,” Smallwood said. “The rapists
that hit last night. This guy’s one of them.”
Ballard looked over Smallwood’s shoulder at the man in
handcuffs. He stood with his head down in shame.
“And how do you know that?” she asked. “Why’d you stop
him?”
“We stopped him on a deuce,” Smallwood said. “But check
out the floor of the back seat. We didn’t search in case you
need a warrant or something. We didn’t want to fuck
anything up, you know?”
“Let me see your light. Did you talk to this guy at all?”
“Not at all. Didn’t want to fuck up.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
Smallwood gave her his flashlight and she walked down the
side of the coupe and pointed the beam through the windows
into the car. She scanned the front seats and center console
before moving to the back. In the footwell on the passenger
side she saw an open cardboard box, and in it she could see
rolls of duct tape and blue tape and a box cutter. She felt the
beginning of an adrenaline rush.
She stepped behind the car and put the light on the man in
handcuffs, blinding him and forcing him to turn away. He had
dark, curly hair, was mid-thirties, and had acne scars on his
cheeks.
“Sir, where were you coming from when the officers
stopped you?”
“I was up on Mulholland.”
“You were drinking?”
“I had a couple beers after I finished my work. When I was
parked at the overlook.”
Ballard picked up what sounded like a slight English accent.
None of the victims of the Midnight Men had reported that
either of the rapists had an accent. Still, she knew it could be
a ploy.
“Where were you going just now when you got stopped?”
“Um, just home.”
“Where’s that?”
Vitello handed her a driver’s license. She put the light on it
and read it as the man gave the matching address. He was
Mitchell Carr, thirty-four years old and living on
Commonwealth in Los Feliz. Ballard realized he could be her
neighbor. She handed the license back to Vitello.
“You run him?” she asked.
“He’s clean except for motor vehicle violations,” Vitello
said.
“I only had two beers,” Carr added helpfully.
Ballard looked at him. She noticed something clipped to his
belt and put the light on it. It was a retractable tape
measure. The adrenaline buzz started to ebb. This didn’t feel
right.
“Where are you from?” she asked. “Originally.”
“New South Wales,” Carr said. “A long time ago.”
Vitello leaned toward her confidentially.
“Australia,” he whispered.
Ballard raised her hand and gestured him back without
touching him.
“What do you do for a living, sir?” she asked.
“Interior design work,” Carr said.
“You’re a designer?”
“Well, no, I work for an interior designer.”
“Doing what?”
“Delivering and installing furniture, hanging pictures, taking
measurements, that sort of thing.”
Ballard looked at Smallwood, who had joined them
between the cars. She handed him back his flashlight and
turned back to Carr.
“What’s with the box cutter and the tape in your car?” she
asked.
“I was taping out furniture dimensions in a house,” Carr
said. “So the owner could see where everything was going to
go. How it would fit.”
“This was up on Mulholland?”
“Actually, it was on a street up there called Outpost. Right
by Mulholland.”
“Do you carry a hand vacuum on your job?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like a battery-operated vacuum — a Dustbuster type of
thing.”
“Oh. No, not really. I supervise furniture installations and
those guys usually do the cleanup after.”
“Do you mind if we look in your trunk, Mr. Carr?”
“Go ahead. What do you think I did?”
Ballard ignored the question and nodded to Smallwood. He
went to the open driver’s door, took a few seconds to locate
the trunk release, and finally popped it open. Ballard stepped
over to look, Vitello following.
“Stay with him,” Ballard instructed.
“Right,” Vitello said.
Ballard checked the trunk. There were more open boxes
containing equipment for Carr’s stated profession — rolls of
tape, more box cutters, small cans of paint and industrial
cleaners. No hand vacuum, coveralls, ski masks, or premade
eye masks.
“Thank you, Mr. Carr,” she said.
Ballard turned to Smallwood and Vitello.
“And thank you two for wasting my time.”
She pushed past them and started back toward her car,
bringing the rover up to her mouth and radioing the com
center that she was clearing the scene. Smallwood followed
her.
“Mallard,” he said. “Are you sure?”
Returning to her car, Ballard said nothing. As she opened
the door, she stared back at Smallwood, who was still waiting
for a response.
“Did you check the height on his DL?” she asked.
“Uh, no,” Smallwood said.
“Five eleven. We’re looking for guys about five six, five
eight max.”
She got in the car, checked her side mirror, and then
pulled out, leaving Smallwood standing there.
Since she was already out and about, she decided to follow
through with her plan to drive up into the Dell to check
things out in the dark hours. She slowly cruised down the
street, passing Cindy Carpenter’s house. The living room
lights were on behind drawn curtains. Ballard also saw down
the side of the house a light in what would be the guest
bedroom. She thought Cindy had probably moved to that
room to sleep, leaving behind the room where she had been
attacked. She wondered if Cindy would sleep with the lights
on from now on.
Deciding to walk up and down the street, she drove down
to the cul-de-sac and pulled to the curb. The chill of the night
might reinvigorate her and she would see all the shadows
and dark places.
The first thing she noted as she walked was that, while the
street seemed quiet, the background sound from the nearby
101 freeway was noticeable. Earlier she had been on Harry
Bosch’s back deck that overlooked the same freeway from
the other side, but the traffic noise had not been as intrusive
as it was up here. She also imagined that the neighborhood
would hear the faint sounds of the Hollywood Bowl, which
was positioned directly across the freeway. That was
probably a good sound to hear, and would have been missed
for almost a year now with the pandemic closure.
The streetlights were positioned too far apart to provide
continuous lighting on the street. There were pockets of
darkness, and the Carpenter house was in one of these,
shaded deeper because the nearest streetlight — at the east
end of the property — was out. Ballard pulled out the small
light she always carried in the pocket of her Van Heusen
jacket and put it up toward the opaque glass globe at the top
of the post. It was an antique streetlamp, the kind favored by
the residents of the wealthy hillside neighborhoods, where
they were more concerned with design and aesthetics than
the need for light as a deterrent to crime. Many of the
neighborhoods in the hills and wealthy communities were still
lit by the dim glow of these lamps. In L.A., decisions about
style, intensity, and number of streetlights were left to
neighborhood homeowner groups to decide. Consequently,
there were dozens of different designs all through the city
and most homeowner associations fought any effort to
modernize the streetlamps.
The fogged glass top of the light appeared to be intact.
Ballard could not determine whether it had been damaged or
tampered with. She tracked her flashlight beam down the
precast stone post to the base, where there was a steel plate
through which the light’s internal wiring could be accessed.
She was about to stoop down to look for signs of tampering
on the plate, when she was startled by a man’s voice from
behind her.
“That’s an acorn.”
Ballard whipped around and put her light into the eyes of
an old man carrying a small dog in both arms. The dog
looked like a Chihuahua and appeared just as old and
decrepit as its owner. The man tried to raise a hand to block
the light but could not reach high enough without possibly
dropping his dog. Ballard lowered the light and pulled her
mask up over her mouth and nose.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You startled me.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to,” the man said. “I see you’re
admiring our acorn.”
“You mean the light?”
“Yes, we call them acorns because of the shape of the
globe, you see. We are very protective of them.”
“Well, this one isn’t doing too well.”
“It’s been reported to the BSL. I called personally.”
“You live on this street?”
“Oh, yes. More than fifty years. I even knew Peter the
Hermit back in the day.”
Ballard had no idea whom or what he was referencing.
“I’m a police officer,” she said. “A detective. Do you walk
this street often at night?”
“Every night. Frederic here has gotten too old to walk, so I
carry him. I know he likes it.”
“When did you report that this … acorn … was out?”
“Yesterday morning. I wanted it fixed before the holiday
but they didn’t get it done. But I told them, you people
screwed it up, get back out here and fix it. I didn’t want it
put to the back of the line. I know how the BSL works.”
“And what is the BSL? And who screwed what up?”
“The Bureau of Street Lighting. But I say it means Bull Shit
Lies. They’re supposed to preserve but they don’t care about
history. Or beauty. They want the whole city to look the
same. The ugly orange glow from their big steel poles.
Sodium vapor. That’s why they’re out here sabotaging us, if
you ask me.”
At that moment, Ballard became very interested in the old
man.
“What is your name, sir?”
“Jack. Jack Kersey. Chairman of the street-lighting
committee, Hollywood Dell Association.”
“When did you notice that this one was out?”
“Wednesday night on our walk — day before yesterday.”
“And you think it was sabotaged?”
“I know it was. I saw them up here with their van. How
many BSL guys does it take to unscrew a streetlight? I guess
the answer’s two. They were here and then that night it
never came on.”
Ballard had been pointing her light at the ground. She now
pointed the beam back at the access plate at the base of the
streetlight.
“They were working on it here?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Kersey said. “By the time I grabbed Frederic
and got up here, they were turning around to leave. I waved
at them but they just drove on by me.”
“Did you get a look at either one of them?”
“Not really. The guy driving was white. He had red hair, I
remember that.”
“What about the other guy?”
He shook his head.
“I was just looking at the driver, I guess.”
“Tell me about their van. What color was it?”
“It was white. Just a van.”
“Were there markings on it — like Bureau of Street Lighting
or a city seal or anything?”
“Uh … yeah, I saw it. BSL — right on the door when they
blew by me.”
“You mean you saw the letters — BSL?”
“Yeah, right on the door.”
“And could you tell what kind of van it was?”
“Not really. One of their work vans.”
“For example, did it have a flat front like the old-style vans
with the engines between the front seats? Or more like a
sloping front — like the newer vans have?”
“Yes, sloping front. It looked new.”
“What about windows? Did it have windows running down
the sides, or was it what they call a panel van?”
“Panel. You really know your vans, Detective.”
“It’s come up before.”
She didn’t bother mentioning that she had owned several
vans in her life when she was carrying multiple surfboards
around.
Ballard put her light on the plate at the bottom of the post
again. She could see that two screws held it in place. She
had a basic set of tools in her kit bag in the car.
“Mr. Kersey, where do you live?” she asked.
“Just down at the end,” he said. “At the intersection.”
He gave a specific address and pointed four houses down
to the residence at the next streetlight. Ballard realized it
was one of the houses where no one had answered her knock
earlier in the day.
“Were you out earlier today?” she asked. “I knocked on
your door.”
“I was at the store, yes,” he said. “Otherwise, I was home.
Why’d you knock? What’s this about?”
“There was a break-in on the street last night. I’m
investigating. The light might have been put out by the
perpetrators.”
“Oh, my. Whose home?”
Ballard pointed to the Carpenter house.
“That one.”
“And things had just started to settle down there, too.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, there was a guy living there. He was loud, always
yelling, throwing stuff around. A hothead is what I’d call him.
Then I think she kicked him out, and things got quiet again.
Peaceful.”
Ballard nodded. She was realizing how lucky she was that
Kersey had taken his dog out while she was on the street. His
information was important.
“You didn’t happen to notice anything unusual in the
neighborhood last night, did you?” she asked.
“Last night … I don’t think so,” Kersey said.
“Nothing at all after eight or so?”
“Nothing comes to mind. Sorry, Detective.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Kersey. I’m going to go get some tools
out of my car, which I parked at the cul-de-sac. I need to
open that plate up. I’ll be right back.”
“I probably should be putting Frederic to bed. He gets
tired, you know.”
Ballard asked him for his phone number in case she wanted
to follow up with any questions or show him photos of vans.
“Thank you, Mr. Kersey,” she said. “Have a good night.”
“You too, Detective,” Kersey said. “Good night and stay
safe.”
He turned and headed back down the street, murmuring
words of comfort to the dog in his arms.
Ballard walked up the street to her car, got in, and drove it
down to where the darkened streetlight was. She popped the
trunk and opened the plastic mini tool set she kept in the kit
bag. After pulling on gloves, she returned to the streetlight
with a screwdriver and quickly removed the access plate. The
screws were tight but turned easily. It was not what she
expected for something that was essentially an antique. She
noticed a faded manufacturer tag on the plate that said
Pacific Union Metal Division.
Once she had removed the plate, she pointed the beam
into the opening and saw a tangle of wires hanging from a
metal conduit that she assumed ran up the post to the light
assembly. One of the wires had been cut, its copper center
still shining brightly in the flashlight beam. The copper was
not degraded or oxidized at all, indicating that it had been
freshly cut.
Ballard had no doubt. The Midnight Men had cut the wire
and killed the light on Wednesday before coming back
Thursday night to break into Cindy Carpenter’s house to rape
her. They had been as unlucky with Jack Kersey as she had
been lucky. He had seen them and he knew something about
streetlights. His basic description of the van driver having red
hair matched Cindy’s description of one of her attackers.
She now felt bad about giving Smallwood and Vitello shit
for calling her out on the traffic stop. If they had not done
that, she might not have cruised the neighborhood at the
right time and run into Jack Kersey. Things felt as though
they had aligned for her somehow, and now she was a step
closer to the Midnight Men.
She screwed the access plate back into place and then
headed back to her car. She wanted to drive south and check
the streetlights outside the homes of the first two victims.
15
The buzz from her cell phone infiltrated her sleep, pulling
Ballard out of a dream about water. She pushed the sleep
mask up onto her forehead and reached for the phone. She
saw that it was Bosch calling and it was exactly noon.
“Harry.”
“Shit, you were sleeping. Call me back when you’re
awake.”
“I’m awake, I’m awake. What’s going on?”
“I think I found the nexus.”
His use of the word nexus sent Ballard’s thoughts toward
the victims of the Midnight Men. That was the case she had
been running with until exhaustion drove her down into the
deep sleep Bosch had just roused her from. She flipped the
comforter over, swung her legs to the edge of the bed, and
pulled herself up into a sitting position.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What are you saying? You
connected the three women? How did — ”
“No, not the women,” Bosch said. “The murders. Javier
Raffa and Albert Lee.”
“Oh, yeah, got it. Sorry. I have to wake up.”
“When did you go down?”
“About eight.”
“That’s not enough time. Go back to sleep, call me later.”
“No, I won’t be able to sleep now. I’ll be thinking about the
case. Tell you what, you hungry? I never ate anything
yesterday. I could bring something up to the house.”
“Uh, yeah. If you’re sure.”
“I am. What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Anything.”
“I’m going to take a shower and then I’ll leave. Text me
what you want from Birds. It’s on the way. The menu’s
online.”
“I already know what I want. Quarter chicken with baked
beans and coleslaw. And I’ll take the regular barbecue
sauce.”
“Text me anyway so I don’t forget.”
She disconnected, then sat on the bed for a long moment,
wondering if she should have taken Bosch’s advice and tried
to go back to sleep. She turned and looked back at her
pillow. After four years on the night shift, working eight to six
four nights a week, she had learned that cheating sleep could
have bad consequences.
She pushed herself off the bed and headed to the
bathroom.
An hour later she pulled to a stop in front of Bosch’s house.
She carried her laptop and the bag from Birds. The
restaurant was only a few minutes from her condo and had
become her go-to place during the pandemic for takeout.
They also gave anybody with a badge a discount, not that
LAPD officers were supposed to take such perks.
Bosch took the bag from her and put it on the dining room
table, where he had cleared space amid his laptop, printer,
and paperwork. He started to take out the cartons containing
their food.
“I got the same as you,” Ballard said. “Should be easy. You
okay with me taking the mask off to eat? I have the
antibodies. Supposedly.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. When did you get it?”
“November.”
“How bad?”
“I was down a few weeks but obviously I was luckier than
others. You think the new president’s going to hurry the
vaccine along? I don’t know anybody in the department
who’s gotten it so far.”
“Hope so.”
“What about you? You’re eligible.”
“I never leave this place. Might be more dangerous for me
to go out to get it.”
“You should make an appointment, Harry. Don’t turn it into
a thing.”
“You sound like my daughter.”
“Well, your daughter’s right. How is Maddie?”
“Good. She’s doing well in the academy and has a
boyfriend now.”
He offered nothing else but Ballard guessed that this meant
he didn’t see her very often. She felt bad about that.
They both ate out of the sectioned cartons the meals came
in. Bosch already had real silverware out and waiting, so they
left the plastic stuff in the bag.
“In the old days, they used to give cops a discount,” Bosch
said. “At Birds.”
“They still do,” Ballard said. “They like having cops as
customers.”
She gave him some time to savor his first bite of rotisserie
chicken slathered in barbecue sauce. It was the kind of food
that made you bring a napkin to your mouth after every bite.
“So, tell me about this nexus you found,” she said.
“All I have is the public records that you can get online,”
Bosch said. “Corporate records filed with the state. You’re
going to have to go deeper with your access to confirm.”
“Okay, and what am I confirming?”
“I think it’s like the factoring that happened in the Albert
Lee case. Ownership of the body shop, including the property
it sits on, was transferred from Javier Raffa three years ago
to a corporation owned by Raffa and a partner.”
“Who’s the partner?”
“A dentist named Dennis Hoyle. Office in Sherman Oaks.”
“Another dentist. Dennis the dentist. The dentist in the
Albert Lee case was down in the Marina, right?”
“Yeah, John William James.”
“Any connection between Hoyle and James?”
“That’s the nexus.”
Ballard could tell Bosch was proud of whatever it was he
had found, and of doing so without even leaving his house.
She hoped she would still have that mojo if she was around
and working cases at his age.
“Tell me,” she said.
“All right, you start with Hoyle and James being dentists,”
Bosch said. “Completely different practices. James, he’s down
in the Marina with that crowd: celebrities, singles, actors,
whatever. Your guy, Hoyle, he’s up in the Valley, different
clientele, probably more of a family practice. So it looks like
never the twain shall meet, right?”
“I guess. Maybe they knew each other from professional
associations. You know, Teeth Pullers of Los Angeles, or
something like that.”
“Close. These guys — dentists — when they put in a crown
or an implant or what have you, most of them don’t make
that stuff in-house. They make a mold of the patient’s tooth
and send it out to a dental lab that makes crowns and
dentures.”
“They sent to the same lab.”
“They owned the same lab. They were partners — until
somebody whacked James. It’s all in state corporate records.
If somebody wants to spend the time chasing it through a
maze of holding companies, it’s right there.”
“And you spent the time.”
“What else am I going to do?”
“Chase your guy Finbar McShane?”
“Finbar’s a white whale. You said so yourself. But this? This
is real.”
Bosch wiped his hands thoroughly on a clot of napkins and
then reached over for a sheaf of documents at the side of the
table. Ballard could see the state seal of California on the top
sheet.
“So you’ve been printing,” she said. “That must have taken
all morning.”
“Funny,” Bosch said. “These are the incorporation filings
behind a joint business venture called Crown Labs
Incorporated. It’s located in Burbank up by the airport. Four
other corporations own it, and these I traced to four dentists:
James, Hoyle, and two guys named Jason Abbott and Carlos
Esquivel.”
“How can James still own it if he’s been dead for seven
years?”
“His company is called JWJ Ventures. Corporate records
show the vice president of that company upon its founding
was Jennifer James, who — I’m going to take a wild guess —
was his wife. Seven months after he gets murdered, the
records are amended and Jennifer James is now president.
So he’s dead but she has his piece of the lab.”
“Okay, so James — when he was alive — knew Hoyle and
was in business with him.”
“And each had an association with a business where the
principal owner/operator is murdered.”
“With the same gun.”
Bosch nodded.
“With the same gun,” he repeated. “Very risky. The shells
connect the case more solidly than the corporate records.
There’s got to be a reason.”
“Well, twenty-twos are hard to match,” Ballard said. “They
mushroom, shatter. It was about the shells. And in the Raffa
kill, we got a break. The shell went under a car and wasn’t
readily retrievable.”
“Same with Albert Lee — the shell wasn’t quickly
retrievable. You get into coincidences now, and I don’t buy
coincidences like that.”
“So, maybe we have other kills where there were no shells
left behind and we just got lucky with these two.”
They both were silent for a moment as they considered
this. Ballard thought, but didn’t say, that there had to be
another reason the killer kept the gun. It belied the planning
and precision of the hits. She knew it was something that
would need to be answered in the course of the investigation.
“So … ,” Ballard said, moving on. “Let’s suppose that
Hoyle’s connection to Javier Raffa came out of a factoring
deal. These dentists had to have somebody who set these
things up. Somebody who knew about these men — Albert
Lee and Javier Raffa — needing money.”
“Exactly. The factor man.”
“And that’s who we’ve got to find.”
“You have to go back to the Raffa family and find out when
he hit a financial crunch and who he went to about it.”
“Well, I know one thing. He had to buy his way out of the
gang. Our intel is that he paid Las Palmas twenty-five grand
in cash to walk away.”
“Where’s a guy like that get that kind of cash — without
robbing a bank?”
“He could have refinanced the business or the property.”
“What, and tell the bank he needed the money to buy his
way out of a street gang? Good luck with that.”
Ballard didn’t respond as she thought it through.
“What about the other two dentists?” she finally said.
“Abbott and Esquivel.”
Bosch tapped his stack of printouts.
“I got ’em here,” he said. “One of them’s got a practice in
Glendale, the other’s in Westwood.”
“That’s weird,” Ballard said. “I just remembered Raffa’s son
said the other night that his father’s partner was a white guy
from Malibu.”
“Maybe Hoyle lives out there and commutes in to Sherman
Oaks. Malibu puts him closer to James in the Marina. You’ll
have to run all of them through DMV to get home addresses.”
“I will. When did Crown Labs first incorporate?”
“In ’04.”
“So these guys, they’ve been around.”
“Oh, yeah. James was thirty-nine when he got his ticket
punched seven years ago.”
Ballard finished off the cup of coleslaw that came with her
chicken. She then wiped her mouth with a napkin for the
final time and closed the to-go carton.
“There is not much I can do to formally run all the
connections down with the state till Monday,” she said. “And
that’s only if I’m still on the case.”
“There is that,” Bosch said.
“Whether I’m on it then or not, what I feel like doing today
is skeeing a few of these places. The lab, Hoyle’s house,
maybe his office. See how high on the hog he’s living. I’ll run
the other two through DMV and put them on the map. But
right now there’s no real connection to them. That’s why I’m
going to go skeeing. I want to see what I’m up against. Then
I’ll go talk to Raffa’s family.”
Skeeing was pure LAPD jargon — a less formal word for
surveilling. It meant doing a drive-by of a person of interest,
taking a measure of him. Its origin was debated: One camp
thought it derived from the word schematic, meaning getting
the physical parameters of a suspect’s place of business or
residence. Others said it was short for scheming— taking the
first step in a plan to hit a house of criminal activity. Either
way, Ballard did not have to translate for Bosch.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
“You sure?” Ballard asked.
“I’m sure,” Bosch said. “I’ll grab a mask.”
17
The skee patrol started at the dental lab near the airport. On
San Fernando Road in an industrial zone that backed up to
the 5 freeway, it was a large single-level building with a
gated parking lot on the side. A small sign identifying the
business was on the door along with a logo: a cartoon tooth
with eyes and a bright smile.
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Ballard said.
“The four entities own it but it most likely does work for
dentists all over the city,” Bosch said.
“You’d think a place like this would make them enough
money that they didn’t need to be involved in factoring and
murder schemes.”
“Some people can never have enough money. And then
again, maybe we’re completely wrong and they are
completely legit.”
“It’s not looking that way.”
“You want to try to go in?”
“They’re closed. No cars in the lot. Besides, we don’t want
to give them early warning that we’re sniffing around.”
“Good point. But drive down to the end, see what we can
see.”
Ballard drove along the fence line until they could see a
third side of the building. There was an emergency exit here
by a trash dumpster.
“Okay,” Ballard said. “What’s next?”
Bosch had brought his printouts and had mapped out the
order in which they should conduct the skee. Their next stop
was nearby Glendale. They drove by a shopping plaza on
Brand Boulevard, where Carlos Esquivel had a family
dentistry practice. It was on the second level of the plaza and
reachable by an outdoor escalator, which had been turned off
for the holiday weekend.
“Looks like a nice practice he’s got here,” Ballard said.
“Let’s drive around behind,” Bosch said. “See what the
parking situation looks like.”
Ballard followed his instruction and found an alley that ran
behind the plaza and where there was reserved parking for
building employees. They saw Esquivel’s name on a placard
reserving one spot. Right next to it was a spot reserved for a
Dr. Mark Pellegrino.
“Looks like he has a partner,” Bosch said.
Next stop was Esquivel’s home in the hills above Glendale:
a multimillion-dollar contemporary with white walls, hard
lines, black window frames, and a gated driveway.
“Not bad,” Bosch said.
“He’s doing all right,” Ballard said. “I guess drillin’ teeth is
drillin’ for gold.”
“But can you imagine that life? No one’s ever happy to see
you.”
“You’re the guy who’s going to stick your fingers and metal
instruments in my mouth.”
“Sucks.”
“Not that different from being a cop. These days, people
don’t want to see us either.”
And so it went. They next traversed the Valley, checking
out Dennis Hoyle’s office and home. DMV records showed
that he had previously lived in Malibu, but his current
residence was in the hills off Coldwater Canyon. It was a
gated property with a view of the whole San Fernando Valley.
Next they dropped down through the Sepulveda Pass to the
Westwood location, where Jason Abbott practiced dentistry,
and then over to the other side of the freeway in Brentwood,
where he lived.
They headed south for the final drive-by — the places the
late John William James worked, lived, and died. But before
they got there, Ballard took an unexpected turn in Venice.
Bosch thought she was making a driving mistake.
“This is not it,” he said.
“I know,” Ballard said. “I just want to make a little detour.
One of my Midnight Men victims — the latest one — has an
ex that lives down here. And I thought, since we’re on skee
patrol, that I’d just take a run by and scope it out.”
“No problem. You think he’s one of the Midnight Men?”
“No, it’s not that. But there’s something there. They
divorced two years ago but she seems afraid of him. I hit him
up last night on a pretext call to see what his reaction would
be and he sounded like an asshole. He’s in the tech-
investment field.”
“They’re all assholes. What address are we looking for?”
“Number five Spinnaker.”
They were on a narrow street a block from the beach. The
homes were all modern, multilevel, and expensive. Reginald
Carpenter was apparently doing better financially than his
ex-wife. They found his home two houses off the beach. It
was three levels sitting on top of a three-car garage with just
enough space between the very similar houses on either side
to store trash cans.
“I hope he has an elevator,” Bosch said.
There was a door to the right of the garage with a no
soliciting sign on it. Ballard leaned toward her window so she
could look up the facade of the home. She could see the tip
of a surfboard leaning over the railing of a balcony.
“I wonder if I knew this guy from when I used to stay out
here,” she said.
Bosch didn’t answer. Ballard turned the car around and
headed back to Pacific Avenue.
Pacific ran alongside the Ballona Lagoon, which separated
Venice from Marina del Rey. They took it to Via Marina and
then were cruising by homes valued even higher than those
in overpriced Venice. They cruised by the condo complex
where James had lived and then went out to Lincoln
Boulevard, where his dental practice was located in a
shopping plaza that backed up to the vast complex of docks
and boats that made up the area’s namesake marina. Here,
the skeeing paid off. The James family dentistry practice was
still in business seven years after his unsolved murder. The
name listed on the door was Jennifer James, DDS.
“Well, that explains some things,” Ballard said.
“She inherited her husband’s partnership and his practice,”
Bosch said. “Unless maybe it was a joint practice all along.”
“I wonder what she knew or knows about the factoring.”
“And the murders, including her own husband’s.”
Bosch pointed to an empty parking space in the corner of
the parking lot.
“Right there, that’s where he was parked,” he said. “The
gunman supposedly came over from the Marina, crossed the
lot, and shot him right through the window. Two head shots,
very clean, very fast.”
“I take it no brass was left behind?” Ballard asked.
“None.”
“That would’ve been too easy. And the slugs?”
Bosch shook his head.
“It wasn’t my case,” he said. “But from what I remember,
no go on the slugs. They flattened when they hit bone.”
Ballard drove out of the parking lot onto Lincoln Boulevard
and headed north toward the 10 freeway.
“So, what else do you know about that investigation?” she
asked.
Bosch explained that the John William James murder case
was handled by Pacific Division Homicide, where it was
determined that there were not enough reasons or evidence
to connect it to the Albert Lee killing.
“I tried to get it there,” Bosch said. “But they wouldn’t
listen. A guy named Larkin on the table at Pacific worked it. I
think he was a short-timer, had, like, three months till he
pulled the pin, and wasn’t looking for a big conspiracy case.
By then I was two years in on Lee and I could not make the
connection that would force the issue. Last thing I heard was
that they were calling it robbery. James wore a ten-
thousand-dollar Rolex his wife had given him. It was gone.”
“His wife who inherited his ownership in the lab as well as
his practice,” Ballard said. “When did she give it to him?”
“That I don’t know. But as far as I do know, the case was
never cleared. It would now be a cold case and the murder
book would be at the Ahmanson Center.”
“You want me to make a U-turn?”
“It all depends on what else you’ve got going today.”
“I have my shift tonight and need to call my victims on the
Midnight Men thing. They’re all working up surveys for me.”
“Another nexus to be found.”
“Hopefully. I also want to get to Raffa’s wife to ask about
his twenty-five-thousand-dollar loan.”
Ballard saw an opening and made a U-turn on Lincoln. She
headed south toward Westchester, the area of the city near
LAX.
“What a treat!” she said. “We get to hit airport traffic from
two airports in the same day.”
“This traffic is a breeze,” Bosch said. “Wait till the
pandemic is over and people get out and want to travel.
Good luck then.”
The Ahmanson Training Center was on Manchester
Boulevard and was part of the LAPD network of training
facilities for new recruits. The department had long outgrown
the academy in the hills surrounding Dodger Stadium and
had ancillary facilities here and up in the Valley. The citywide
homicide archive was also housed here. It had opened only a
few years before, when the glut of unsolved cases — six
thousand since 1960 — had overburdened filing space in the
department’s divisions. The murder books were on shelves in
a room as big as a regular neighborhood library, and there
was an ongoing project to digitize cases so there would
always be space for more.
“You have your retiree badge or ID card with you?” Ballard
asked. “In case they ask.”
“I have my card in my wallet,” Bosch said. “Didn’t think I’d
be badging anybody.”
“You probably won’t need it. On weekends and holidays
they just have a couple recruits on shit duty keeping the
place open. They’ll probably be too intimidated by the likes of
you to ask for ID.”
“Then I guess it’s good to know I can still bring it.”
“Why don’t you bring your printouts so we can get the date
for the book we want to pull.”
After parking, they went up the front steps and into a
grand hallway with large LAPD do-gooder photographs lining
the walls. In a previous incarnation the center had been the
corporate headquarters for an oil company. Ballard imagined
the walls had then been lined with do-gooder oil-production
photos.
The homicide library was on the first floor at the end of the
grand hall. Its double doors were unmarked, the thinking
likely being that it was not the best thing to advertise that
the city had a whole library of murder books from unsolved
cases.
There was a lone cadet behind the counter, sitting in a
swivel chair and playing a game on his phone. He went on
full alert when Ballard and Bosch entered, probably his only
visitors of the day. He was the same kid who had been on
duty the previous day when Ballard came in for the Albert
Lee book. Still, she flipped her badge while Bosch put his
printouts down on the counter and started spreading them
out.
The recruit was in a training uniform with his name on a
patch over the right breast pocket. It was attached by Velcro
so it could be easily ripped off should the recruit wash out of
the academy. His name was Farley.
“Ballard, Hollywood Division. I was here yesterday. We
need to pull another book. This one from a 2013 case.”
She looked down at the printout Bosch was focused on. It
was his copy of the chrono from the Albert Lee case, and he
was running his finger down the page of 2013 entries. He
found the one detailing his inquiries to Pacific Division
Homicide about the John William James murder. He called
out the case number and Farley dutifully wrote it down.
“Okay, let me go look,” he said.
He left the counter and disappeared into the warren of
shelves lined with plastic binders, each one cataloging a life
taken too soon and still with no justice in response.
Farley seemed to be taking a long time to locate the
murder book. They were filed chronologically, so it seemed
like it would be an easy errand to locate the 2013 shelves
and find the John William James binder.
Ballard impatiently drummed her fingers on the counter.
“What the hell happened to him?” Bosch asked.
Ballard stopped drumming as some kind of realization
came to her.
“It’s not there,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Bosch asked.
“I just realized. The Albert Lee book is gone, so why would
they leave this one?”
“They? Who’s they?”
Before Ballard could come up with an answer, Farley
returned from his errand without a murder book in his hands.
Instead, he had a lined manila checkout card like the one
Ballard had seen when she came for the Albert Lee book.
“It’s checked out,” Farley said.
“That makes me oh for two,” Ballard said. “Who checked it
out?”
Farley read a name off the checkout card.
“Ted Larkin, Homicide Unit, Pacific Division. But it says he
checked it out five years ago. That was before this place was
even here. Like the other one you asked for.”
Ballard slapped a hand down on the counter. She could
guess that it was probably checked out after Larkin had
retired. Somebody had impersonated the lead detectives on
the two cases to enter two different police stations and steal
the murder books, leaving behind what would be viewed as
plausible checkout cards.
“Let’s go,” Ballard said.
She turned from the counter and headed to the door.
Bosch followed.
“Thanks, Farley,” she called over her shoulder.
Ballard marched down the wide hallway toward the main
entrance, leaving Bosch struggling to keep up.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he called after her. “Where
are you running? There’s nothing you — ”
“I want to get out of here,” Ballard said. “So we can talk
outside.”
“Then we can only go as fast as I can go. So slow down.”
“Okay. I’m just fucking pissed off.”
Ballard slowed her pace and Bosch caught up.
“I mean, this is bullshit,” she said. “Somebody’s stealing
murder books in our own damn department.”
The urgency of her voice caught the attention of two cadets
walking by in the hall.
“Just wait,” Bosch said. “You said let’s talk outside.”
“Fine,” Ballard said.
She held her tongue until they were out the doors, down
the steps, and heading across the parking lot to her car.
“They have somebody inside,” she said.
“Yeah, we know that.” Bosch said. “But who is ‘they’? The
dentists? Or is there a go-between?”
“That’s the question,” Ballard replied.
They got in the Defender, and Ballard tore out of the
parking lot like she was on a code 3 call. They drove in
silence for a long time, until Ballard drove onto the entrance
ramp of the 10 freeway.
“So, now what?” Bosch asked.
“We’re going to make one last stop,” Ballard said. “Then I
need to go back to work on my other case. I told the victims
I’d be calling.”
“That’s good. What stop are we making?”
“Dodger Stadium.”
“The academy? Why?”
“Not the academy. The stadium. I’m going to get you
vaccinated, Harry. You’re eligible, and I get the feeling that if
I don’t help you get it done, it will never happen.”
“Look, just take me home. I can get that done on my own
time and not waste yours.”
“Nah, we’re going. Get it done now. Trust the science,
Harry.” “I do. But there are a hell of a lot of people who
deserve it ahead of me. Besides, you need an appointment.”
Ballard pulled the badge off her belt and held it up.
“Here’s your appointment,” she said.
18
Before she got to her city ride Ballard’s phone buzzed again.
This time it was her detective commander calling. This meant
that the watch commander had roused Robinson-Reynolds at
home to complain that she was not responding to radio or
cell calls.
“L-T,” she said. “I’m about to check in with the watch
commander.”
“What the hell, Ballard?” Robinson-Reynolds said.
“I was with my rape victim. She was very emotional and it
wasn’t a good time to take the call. Plus I pulled a dead rover
when I left the station. It’s charging in my car.”
“Well, they fucking need you at a scene.”
“I’m on my way. What is it? Where is it?”
“I don’t know, some kind of an assault in Thai Town. Get
the details from the watch commander.”
“I’ll call him next.”
“I don’t like getting calls about my people, Ballard. You
know that.”
“I do, L-T. It won’t happen — ”
Robinson-Reynolds disconnected.
“ — again.”
She had hoped to keep him on the line so she could update
him on the cases she was working. Now she would have to
wait till Monday. A lot could happen between now and then.
It was a good thing Ballard liked working alone, because
the department had a freeze on promotions and hiring until
the world cleared the pandemic. But what made solo work
difficult was not having a partner to divvy up responsibilities
with. Ballard had to cover everything and still fight to keep
the cases she wanted to keep. Once in the car, she called the
watch lieutenant on the rover. She chose this because the
conversation would go out live on the radio. A cell call would
have given him carte blanche to harangue her for not
answering the initial calls.
Because it was a holiday weekend and people with seniority
were taking days, there was yet another watch commander
on duty, making it three in three nights. Lieutenant Sandro
Puig kept a modulated tone when he told Ballard to respond
to an address on Hobart Avenue to investigate a home
invasion and assault. She asked if there were any Thai
officers on duty and he responded that 6-A 79 — the
designation for the patrol unit assigned to the Thai Town area
— included an officer who could translate.
It took Ballard five minutes to wind her way down and out
of the Dell and then another five to get to the address, which
was a 1950s two-level apartment building with parking
underneath. It looked like the last time anyone had taken a
run at painting the place was the previous century. She
parked behind a patrol car. She saw no EMT wagon yet, even
though the call was billed as an assault.
The entrances to the apartments were along an outside
walkway. As she headed up the steps toward apartment 22,
a shirtless man with a bloody eye suddenly appeared on the
upper landing, saw Ballard coming up, and charged down the
stairs toward her.
At the same moment, she heard a woman’s shrill voice yell,
“Hey! Stop!”
Muscle memory took over. Ballard took a sideways step
into the middle of the concrete staircase and brought her
arms and hands up to take on the body charging at her from
an upper angle. The man hit her with all of his weight. He
was small but the impact was solid and she was propelled
backward and down. She landed butt-first on the lower
landing with the man’s weight coming down on top of her.
After impact, he immediately started to roll off her. She tried
to grab him, but without a shirt, there was no purchase on
his sweat-slick body. As fast as the collision had occurred he
was up and gone. Ballard could see a female officer coming
down the steps toward her. The officer hit the landing,
jumped over Ballard’s sprawled body, and continued the
chase, yelling something that sounded like “Yood, yood,
yood!”
Ballard realized she had hit her head on the concrete. She
wanted to get up and join the chase but the world was
beginning to spin. She turned onto her side and then her
stomach and then finally raised herself onto her hands and
knees.
“Ballard, are you all right?”
She turned her head toward the stairs and saw another
officer coming down. Soon she felt a hand on her arm as
someone tried to help her up.
“Wait,” Ballard said. “Give me a second.”
She paused and then looked up at the second officer. It
was Victor Rodriguez, her translator from the night of Raffa’s
killing.
“V-Rod,” Ballard said. “Who the fuck was that?”
“That was our goddamn victim,” Rodriguez said. “He
suddenly jumped up and took off.”
“Go after your partner. I’m all right.”
“You sure?”
“Go.”
Rodriguez hurried off, and Ballard, grabbing the staircase
rail, climbed up into a standing position. She was hit with
vertigo and held on to the railing for support. Her head finally
cleared and she tentatively let go of the railing. After taking a
few steps to see if everything was working, she swung her
hand up under her jacket to the small of her back to check
for blood or other damage but found nothing. She touched
the back of her head. There was no blood but she felt a bump
swelling at the impact point.
“Shit.”
Soon she heard a helicopter cutting across the sky above
and knew the officers had called out an airship to help find
the running man.
But it was not to be. Rodriguez was soon back with the
other officer, Chara Paithoon. Both were huffing from the
unsuccessful foot pursuit.
“He got away,” Rodriguez said.
“You okay, Renée?” Paithoon asked.
“I hit my head,” Ballard said.
Paithoon was one of the few Thai-born officers in the
department. She was short and compactly built and wore a
short haircut with shaved sidewalls and a waxed front wave.
Ballard knew that plenty of female officers adopted utility
hairstyles to ward off the unwanted attention of male
officers.
“Can I see?” Paithoon said. “Let me check your eyes.”
Paithoon snapped on a flashlight. She held the light so the
outer edge of its beam touched lightly on Ballard’s face.
Paithoon was standing in close, looking up at her eyes.
“You’ve got some dilation,” she said. “You should have the
EMTs check it.”
“Yeah, where are they?” Ballard asked. “I thought this was
an assault.”
Paithoon stepped back and put away her light.
“We called them but I guess they’re tied up,” Rodriguez
said.
“So what exactly happened here?” Ballard said.
“Neighbor called it in, said there was a fight in twenty-
two,” Rodriguez said. “We got here, and suspects were gone
on arrival. Chara was talking to the guy and then suddenly
he pushes her into me and takes off. You know the rest.”
“Was he illegal?” Ballard asked.
“Never got to it,” Paithoon said. “He wasn’t Thai, though.
The neighbor who called it in was Thai but this guy was
Cambodian. I think this was ABZ business and he was afraid
we were going to arrest him, so he hightailed it.”
Ballard knew that ABZ meant Asian Boyz, a gang that
preyed upon immigrants, legal and otherwise, from
Southeast Asia.
Two paramedics entered the apartment building’s central
courtyard, and Paithoon greeted them.
“Our victim is GOA but you need to take a look at Detective
Ballard here,” she said. “She took a tumble and hit her
head.”
The paramedics agreed to check Ballard but wanted to do it
at their truck. Paithoon and Rodriguez stayed behind to do
mop-up on what was turning out to be an assault call without
a victim.
Ballard sat under a light on the fold-down tail of the EMT
wagon while a med tech checked her vitals as well as her
eyes for dilation and her scalp for bruising and swelling. The
name patch on his uniform said single.
“Is that your name or relationship status?” Ballard asked.
“It’s my name but I get asked that a lot,” Single said.
“Of course you do.”
“So, I think you have a slight concussion. We’ve got a little
bit of dilation of the pupils, some elevated blood pressure.”
He used his gloved fingers to press the skin around
Ballard’s eyes. She could see the concentration in his
expression as he worked. He wore a mask but he had sharp
brown eyes and full brown hair and was maybe a few years
younger than her. One of his pupils had a notch in it slightly
off center at five o’clock.
“Coloboma,” Single said.
“What?” Ballard asked.
“You’re looking at my eye. The notch in my pupil is caused
by a birth defect in the iris called coloboma. Some call it a
keyhole pupil.”
“Oh. Does it …”
“Affect my eyesight? No. But I have to wear sunglasses
when the sun is out. So, most of the time.”
“Well, that’s good. About your eyesight.”
“Thanks. And so you’re on the other side of the wall,
right?”
“What?”
“Hollywood Division?”
“Oh, yeah, Hollywood. You’re at the firehouse, then?”
“Yep. Maybe I’ll see you in the parking lot someday.”
“Sure.”
“But what I think you need to do now is punch out and go
home and rest.”
“I can’t do that. I’m the only detective on duty tonight.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not going to be much of a detective if
your brain swells and you go into seizure.”
“Seriously?”
“You took a good knock on the head. Coup and contrecoup
injuries — bruising of the brain, swelling — can develop over
time. I’m not saying you have that, because there is only
mild dilation exhibited, but you definitely want to take it
easy. You can sleep but you want somebody to wake you and
check on you every couple hours or so. Just keep a watch on
this. You have somebody at home who can check on you
through the night?”
“I live alone.”
“Then give me a number, and I’ll call you every few hours.”
“You’re serious?”
“Totally. You don’t want to mess around with an injury like
this. Call your supervisor and tell him you’re going home. If
he wants to talk to me, I’ll tell him what I just told you.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it.”
“Give me a number to call.”
Ballard gave him a business card that had her name and
cell phone number on it. She remained skeptical that he
would call to check on her. But she hoped he would. She
liked his look and his manner. She liked the keyhole in his
eye.
“So, am I okay to drive?” she asked. “I have a city ride I
should turn in and then get my car.”
“I can drive your ride back, since we’re going back to the
station. Where do you live?”
“Los Feliz.”
“Well, maybe you can get an Uber or one of the patrol guys
can drive you home.”
“Sure. I can work on that.”
“Good. And I’ll call to check on you in a couple hours.”
20
After the last curve, Sunset dropped down to the beach, and
Ballard saw a vast parking lot next to a closed tourist
restaurant. There was only one car in the lot and it did not
have the boxy lines of a city ride. Ballard had forgotten that
Davenport likely drove undercover wheels for his gang work.
While she waited for the traffic light to change, she called
him.
“You there yet?”
“We’re here waiting and you’re late.”
“What car are you driving? I’m about to pull in.”
“It will be obvious, Ballard. We’re the only car in the lot.
Just get in here.”
He disconnected. Ballard looked at the glowing red light in
the traffic signal. She acknowledged to herself that Bosch
had spooked her. She checked the gas station on the corner
and the supermarket parking lot beyond it and didn’t see
Bosch’s old Cherokee. There was no way he could have
gotten here from his house so quickly.
The light changed to green and she crossed into the
parking lot. The arm was up on the ticket dispenser because
it was after hours. She drove toward the car parked in the
middle of the lot at an angle that put her headlights through
the driver’s-side window. As she got close, she recognized
Davenport behind the wheel. She then made a looping turn
and saw his passenger was in the front seat. She pulled her
car up alongside so they could speak window to window and
dropped the transmission into park. Before she killed the
engine she took out her mini-recorder, turned it on, and
started recording. She slid it into the side air-conditioning
vent, where it would not be seen by the informant but would
catch every word. She then held the rover up and called in
her location to the com center so there would be a record of
her last location should anything go wrong.
She lowered her window and killed the engine.
The woman sitting three feet away in Davenport’s
undercover ride was Latina and maybe forty years old. She
had heavy eye makeup, long brown hair, and a high collar on
her blouse that Ballard thought probably hid tattoos or the
scars left by their removal.
Davenport leaned forward so he could see around his
passenger to Ballard.
“What’s with the cloak-and-dagger, Ballard? And you called
this in? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Robinson-Reynolds told me to.”
“You shouldn’t even have told him about this.”
“I had to. You pull me forty minutes out of the division and
I had to tell someone. He told me to tell coms when I — ”
“Yeah, well, he’s a fuckhead. You’ve got twenty minutes,
Ballard. Ask your questions.”
Ballard looked at the woman. She seemed put out by the
shouting coming from Davenport beside her.
“Okay, what’s your name?” Ballard asked.
“No names!” Davenport yelled. “Jesus Christ, Ballard, I told
you. No. Names.”
“Okay, okay, what do you want me to call you?” Ballard
asked. “I want this to be a conversation and I’d like to have a
name for the person I’m talking to.”
“How about Jane Doe?” Davenport yelled.
He pronounced the J like an H.
“Okay, never mind,” Ballard said. “Let’s start with what
your association was with Las Palmas Thirteen.”
“My fiancé — at least the man I thought was my fiancé —
was a leader at the time I was with him,” the woman said. “A
shot caller.”
“And you were an informant at that time?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Why?”
The woman spoke without hesitation or trace of an accent.
She spoke matter-of-factly about the potentially deadly
double life she had led.
“He started fucking around on me. Stepping out with other
girls. Gang whores. And nobody does that to me.”
“So you didn’t leave him. You became an informant.”
“That’s right. And I was paid too. My information was
good.”
She glanced back at Davenport as if to get confirmation.
Davenport said nothing. Ballard had to guess that the fiancé
she was talking about was Humberto Viera, who Davenport
said went away to Pelican Bay and was never coming back.
Ballard was talking to the living embodiment of the scorned-
woman warning. Hell hath no fury.
“Fifteen minutes,” Davenport helpfully called out.
“You told your LAPD handler about fourteen years ago that
Javier Raffa bought his way out of Las Palmas,” Ballard said.
“He paid twenty-five thousand dollars to Humberto Viera. Do
you remember that?”
“I do,” the woman said.
“How did you come up with that piece of intel at the time?”
“I saw the money. I saw him deliver it.”
Her seeing the transaction seemed to further confirm that
Viera was her fiancé and that his sentence to Pelican Bay was
in part due to her vengeance.
“How did that deal come about?” Ballard asked. “Did Raffa
just make the offer?”
“It was negotiated,” the informant said. “Raffa wanted out
and knew there was only one way — in a box. But my man
was greedy. He always thought about himself before the
gang. And before me. He told Raffa he could pay his way out.
He set the price and helped Raffa get it.”
“Chopping cars?”
“No, Raffa was already doing that. That was his job. He
was even called El Chopo by them. Like a joke.”
“So then, where did he get the money?”
“He had to get a loan.”
“Where do you get a loan to get out of a gang?”
“There was a man. People knew him. A banquero callejero.
He went to him.”
“A street banker.”
“Yes, he got the money from him. The banquero knew
people to get it from. People who wanted to make a loan.”
“Do you remember his name or who he was?”
“I heard he was a cop.”
Davenport flung his door open and came around the front
end of the car to Ballard’s window.
“What are you doing?” Ballard said.
His arm came at her and she ducked back. He reached in
and pulled her key out of her car’s ignition.
“That’s it,” he said. “No more.”
“What are you talking about, Davenport?” she said. “This is
an investigation.”
“And I didn’t sign up to drag no cop into this. Not on my
fucking watch.”
“Give me my key.”
Davenport was already moving around his car again, back
to his open door.
“I’ll bring it back after I get her where you can’t fucking
find her.”
“Davenport, give me the key. I will fucking one-twenty-
eight you on this if you — ”
“Fuck you, Ballard. I’ll one-twenty-eight you right back.
We’ll see who they believe. You are one beef from the
fucking door.”
He jumped back in the car and slammed the door. Ballard
focused on the woman.
“Who was the cop?” Ballard asked.
“Don’t you fucking answer,” Davenport yelled.
He looked down at his left, and the passenger window
started going up.
“Who was it?” Ballard asked again.
Davenport started the car. The informant just stared at
Ballard as her window closed. The car took off, racing across
the parking lot to the exit.
“Goddammit!” Ballard yelled. “Shit!”
Then her phone started to buzz and she saw Bosch’s name
on the screen.
“Harry!”
“What just happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. Where are you? Can you see them?”
“You mean the other car? Yeah, he just blew the light and
started up the PCH toward Malibu.”
“Can you follow him? He grabbed my key and I’m stuck.
He’s taking her home and I need to know who she is and
where she lives.”
“I’m on it.”
Ballard heard the phone clunk into the center console as
Bosch fired up his car and took off. Ballard jumped out of her
car and scanned the businesses and parking lots along Pacific
Coast Highway. She saw the squared-off Jeep Cherokee
coming out of the supermarket lot onto the PCH and heading
through the light at Sunset and toward Malibu.
“Get ’im, Harry,” she said out loud.
24
Ballard walked into the squad room through the back hallway
and saw Matt Neumayer and Ronin Clarke at their
workstations in the Crimes Against Persons pod. Lisa Moore’s
station was empty. Ballard walked over, put her coffee down
on one of the half walls that separated the workstations. It
was a six-person pod; one half was the Sexual Assault Unit
and the other was the actual CAPs Unit, which handled all
assaults that were not sexually motivated.
“Lisa coming in?” Ballard asked.
“She’s here,” Clarke said. “L-T called her in for a powwow.”
Ballard glanced toward the lieutenant’s office and through
the glass could see Lisa sitting in front of Robinson-
Reynolds’s desk.
“You know, Ronin, you’re not supposed to use words like
that anymore,” Neumayer said.
Ballard looked at Neumayer. It did not look like he was
serious.
“Powwow?” Clarke said. “My bad — I’ll add it to my list. I
guess I’m just not woke enough.”
Clarke then turned to Ballard.
“So, Ballard, are you Indian?” Clarke said. “You look like
there’s something going on there.”
He made a gesture as if circling her face.
“You mean Native American?” Ballard asked. “No, I’m not.”
“Then what?” Clarke persisted.
Neumayer cut in before Clarke could put both feet across
the line.
“Renée, sit down,” he said. “Tell me about the weekend.”
She sat in Moore’s station and had to adjust the seat up so
she could see both Neumayer and Clarke over the dividers,
though she was going to talk mostly to Neumayer.
“You know about the new Midnight Men case, right?” she
asked.
“Lisa told us before she got called in,” Neumayer said.
“Well, I think we need to change the focus a little bit,”
Ballard said.
“Why?” Clarke asked.
“The new case is up in the hills,” Ballard said. “The Dell.
And it’s not the kind of neighborhood you walk into to peep in
windows and find a victim. She was targeted and followed
there. At least that’s my take. So that changes how we
should look at victim acquisition. The first two, the thinking
was that the suspects picked the neighborhood because of
access and then found their victims. That doesn’t work with
victim three. So there’s something about these victims that
connects them, and whatever that is — a place or an event
either real or virtual — that’s what put them on the suspects’
radar.”
“Makes sense,” Neumayer said. “Any idea where that …
point is?”
“The nexus?” Ballard said. “No, not yet. But victim three
runs a coffee shop in Los Feliz. That means she has many
interactions with strangers on a daily basis. Anyway, that’s
what I stuck around for. To talk it out with Lisa and you
guys.”
“Well, here she comes now,” Neumayer said. “Let’s all go
into the task force room. Nobody’s using it.”
Moore walked up to the pod. She had either gotten a
sunburn over the weekend or was colored with
embarrassment or anger.
Ballard started to get up from her chair.
“No, that’s okay, Renée,” Moore said. “Take it. You earned
it.”
“What are you talking about?” Ballard asked.
“You got my job,” Moore said. “Might as well start today.”
Now she had the attention of Clarke and Neumayer, who
was already gathering files to take to the task force room.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ballard said.
“Sure you do,” Moore said. “Next deployment I’m on the
late show and you’re on Sex. And don’t play stupid. You set
me up.”
“I didn’t set anybody up,” Ballard said. “And this is news to
me.”
“Me too,” Clarke said.
“Shut up, Clarke,” Moore said. “This is between me and this
backstabbing bitch.”
Ballard tried to remain calm.
“Lisa, wait a minute,” Ballard said. “Let’s go back into L-T’s
office and — ”
“Fuck you, Ballard,” Moore said. “You know I’m a single
mother. I’ve got kids — how the hell am I going to work
midnights? And all because you got pissed that you had to
cover for me.”
“Lisa, I did cover for you,” Ballard said. “I did not tell the
lieutenant one thing about you or this — ”
“He already knew, Lisa,” Neumayer said. “He knew about
the Miramar.”
Moore jerked her laser focus off Ballard and onto
Neumayer.
“What?” she asked.
“He knew,” Neumayer said. “The Miramar, right? Santa
Barbara? Dash told me Thursday he was going up there for
the weekend. If that’s where you were when you should have
been working with Ballard, then he probably saw you. Did he
just ask you how the weekend was?”
Moore didn’t answer but didn’t have to. Her face betrayed
her. She was realizing that the trap she had just walked into
in the lieutenant’s office had been set by herself.
“Bang, the penny drops,” Clarke said. “You fucked up,
Moore.”
“Shut up, Clarke,” Moore said.
“Okay, can we put this little dustup aside for now?”
Neumayer said. “Let’s all go to the TFR. We’ve got a pair of
rapists to catch.”
There was a lull before Moore made a sweep of her hand
toward the hallway that led to the task force room.
“Lead the way,” she said.
The men got up from their stations and Neumayer did lead
the way, a white binder tucked under his arm. Clarke quickly
caught up to him, perhaps sensing that the tension between
the two women was not something he wanted to get in the
middle of.
Ballard followed at a ten-yard distance and Moore took
fourth position in the parade. She spoke to Ballard’s back as
they walked.
“I suppose you want an apology,” she said.
“I don’t want anything from you, Lisa,” Ballard said.
Ballard suddenly stopped short and turned to Moore. They
were standing in the back hallway where only the shoeshine
guy could hear them.
“You know, you may have fucked yourself but you also
fucked me,” Ballard said. “I like my job. I like the dark hours
and now I’m going to be dayside thanks to you.”
Ballard turned and continued down the hall, passing by the
shoeshine station.
Once all four of them were settled in the TFR, Neumayer
asked Ballard to summarize the weekend’s occurrences, since
it was now apparent that Moore had played hooky. Ballard
gave a concise update and told them about her reaching out
to the three victims.
“I have victim three’s Lambkin survey here,” she said. “The
other two should be completed by now. You just have to call
them today to collect. When you compare them, see if we get
any triple matches. Or even double matches.”
Clarke groaned at the idea of desk work.
“Thanks, Ballard,” he said. “Why don’t you stick around to
help?”
“Because I’m going to be sleeping, Clarke,” Ballard said. “I
worked all night and I’ve been working this case all weekend.
I’m out of here as soon as we’re done with this meeting.”
“You’re cool, Renée,” Neumayer said. “We’ll handle it from
here.”
“Good, because I’m supposed to have the next three days
off,” Ballard said.
“All right,” Neumayer said. “Why don’t you give us victim
three’s survey and we’ll take it from there. You can go
home.”
“We also may have caught a break,” Ballard said. “These
scumbags cut the power to the streetlights near each victim’s
house. They wanted it dark.”
“Holy shit,” Clarke said.
“How’d you get that?” Neumayer asked.
“A resident up in the Dell told me the light outside the
victim’s house was out the night before the attack. This
morning I went to the BSL to check work orders and — ”
“BSL?” Moore asked.
“Bureau of Street Lighting,” Ballard said. “On Santa Monica
near Virgil. I checked work orders, and lights on the other
victims’ streets were cut around the same time as the
attacks. Exact times are not known, because they work off
complaints. But the complaint records are in line. I think
these guys cut the lights to darken the streets for when they
came back to do their evil shit. I asked Forensics to print the
posts and access plates on the lights, but my guess is that’s
a long shot.”
“That’s good, Renée,” Neumayer said.
“But what’s it get us?” Clarke asked.
“Dipshit, MLK weekend is in, like, two weeks,” Moore said.
“We need to wire the BSL, and maybe we get up on them for
their next hit.”
Ballard nodded.
“Exactly,” she said. “And they’re already wired. I’ll get a
call every time a light is reported out between now and
then.”
Clarke looked hurt that he had not put the obvious
together.
“Sounds excellent,” Neumayer said. “Maybe we’re getting
the upper hand on these guys. But we still have to run with
the surveys. Ronin and Lisa, pick a vic. Go get the surveys
and then let’s meet back here and start cross-referencing.
Renée, good work. You go home and get some sleep now.”
Ballard nodded. She didn’t mention that she had an
autopsy to go to.
“Call me if you come up with something,” she said.
“Oh, one thing before we grab and go,” Neumayer said. “I
wanted to talk about the media. We’ve been lucky that they
haven’t picked up on this. But now, a third case, it’s going to
get out. Somehow it always does. Now that we have this
streetlight lead, I’m still inclined to try to keep the
investigation under wraps. But it’s dangerous.”
It was always a no-win situation. Going public alerted your
suspects and allowed them to change the MO being used to
track them. Not going public left the department wide open
to criticism for not warning people of the menace that was
out there. In typically cynical fashion, the decision of whether
to go public would be made purely along political lines for the
department and with no consideration of the victims who
might have been saved from trauma.
“I’ll talk to the L-T about it,” Neumayer said. “But if this
leaks, we are not going to look good. They’ll scream that we
should have warned the public.”
“Maybe we should,” Ballard said. “These two are already
looking at life for multiple rapes. As soon as they figure that
out, they’ll probably escalate. They’ll stop leaving live
victims.”
“And that’s the risk we take,” Neumayer said. “Let me talk
to the lieutenant, and he may want to talk to media relations.
I’ll let you know what is decided.”
As they returned to the squad room, Moore said nothing to
Ballard. The friendly and professional relationship they once
shared seemed completely and permanently gone.
Ballard crossed the room and knocked on Robinson-
Reynolds’s open door. He signaled her in.
“Ballard, I thought you’d left.”
“I stayed around to brief the Sex team. And now I have the
autopsy to go to.”
“Then you probably heard about the next deployment.
You’re off midnights, Ballard. I was going to tell you myself.”
“Yeah, I heard. And L-T, I gotta ask, Why am I getting
punished for Lisa’s sins?”
“What are you talking about? You’re not being punished.”
“She said I’m off the late show and she’s on.”
“That’s exactly right. You go to the Sex table, where I’m
sure we’ll see vast improvements. You and Neumayer will
make a great team. Clarke is a deadweight but generally
harmless.”
“That’s the point. I like the late show. By punishing Lisa,
you’re punishing me. I wasn’t looking to leave midnights.”
Robinson-Reynolds paused. Ballard saw his mind churning.
He had started with the assumption that no detective liked
working the midnight shift. But that was his view of it, not
Ballard’s.
“I see where I may have fucked up,” he said. “You don’t
want to move.”
Ballard shook her head.
“The only move I’d want is back to Homicide downtown,
and we know that isn’t going to happen. So, I like midnights.
Good variety of cases, no deadweight partner to carry, out of
sight and out of mind. It’s perfect for me.”
“Okay, I’ll rescind the order. When the next deployment
comes out, you’ll still be third watch.”
“What about Lisa?”
“I don’t know about her. Probably she’ll stay where she is
and I’ll ding her personnel jacket. But Ballard, don’t tell her I
rescinded. I want her to stew about it for a week till the new
DP is posted. That’ll be her punishment.”
Ballard shook her head.
“L-T, she’s got kids and she’s going to start making
arrangements to get cover on the nights. I think you should
tell her. Write her up, put it on her record, like you said, but
don’t leave her swinging like that.”
“This needs to be a learning experience, Ballard. And don’t
you tell her. Not a word. That’s an order.”
“Roger that.”
Ballard left the station, dejected.
It sometimes seemed to her as though the biggest
barricades in the so-called justice system were on the inside,
before you even got out the door.
28
USE OF FORCE
29
Ballard felt the weight on her ribs and arms before anything
else. She opened her eyes to darkness and realized she had
been blindfolded. No, it was the sleep mask. A hand covered
her mouth and gripped her jaw. Her first thought was the
Midnight Men — How did they find me? Did they see me on
Outpost? Her memory flashed on the car she had seen in her
rearview mirror pulling into the lane behind her at Gelson’s.
She tried to struggle but the weight on her was too much.
She violently turned her head to the side to loosen the grip of
the hand on her jaw so that she could scream, but just as
quickly the grip tightened, she was pulled back faceup, and
pressure was applied to her chin, pulling her mouth open.
She heard the distinctive metal click of a gun cocking and
that threw thoughts of the Midnight Men askew. None of the
victims had mentioned a gun. It was two against one — they
didn’t need a gun.
Ballard realized all the weight was on the top half of her
body. Her attacker was straddling her ribs, his legs pinning
her arms to the bed. She couldn’t move her upper body but
her hips and legs were unrestrained. That was the flaw in the
attack.
With all of the panicked, adrenaline-charged effort she
could muster, she brought her knees up, planted her feet in
the mattress and thrust her hips up, tipping her attacker
forward into the headboard.
The move was unexpected and the attacker hit the hard
wooden headboard with a clunk. The barrel of the gun
scraped down Ballard’s chin but the weapon didn’t fire.
Ballard’s right arm broke free and she used it to shove the
attacker to her left and off the bed. She heard him hit the
floor. She yanked off the sleep mask and saw a man she
immediately recognized on the floor.
It was Bonner.
He was struggling to get up. His left arm was swinging up
and toward her with the gun — her gun — in his grasp.
Ballard drew her right elbow back and then pistoned a strike
forward into his throat.
Bonner fell back to the floor, dropped the gun, and brought
both hands up to his neck. His face flushed red and his eyes
widened as he realized he could not take in air. Ballard
realized she had crushed his throat with the fist strike. She
untangled herself from the blanket and sheet and rolled onto
the floor. She now straddled him, swept her gun across the
floor behind her, and reached up to her phone to call 911.
“This is Detective Ballard, LAPD, I need an ambulance to
four-three-four-three Finley right away. Have a man here
who can’t breathe.”
Bonner started making gagging sounds and his face was
now more purple than red.
“Hold while I put it out,” the emergency dispatcher said.
Ballard was put on hold. She reached down and tried to put
her hand under Bonner’s chin to see if she could feel where
the blockage was. He pushed her hand away instinctively.
“Stop fighting,” she said. “I’m trying to help.”
As if responding to her but more likely due to the lack of
oxygen going to his brain, Bonner’s hands fell away from his
neck and dropped to the floor. There was a dry scraping
sound coming from his open mouth. His eyes were open,
staring up at her, and he was dying.
The dispatcher came back on the phone.
“Okay, we are en route.”
“What’s the ETA?”
“Four minutes.”
“He’s not going to make that. He’s coding right now.”
“Can you open his passageway?”
“It’s crushed.”
Ballard blurted out her apartment number and the code to
the main entrance gate, then disconnected. She quickly
pulled up her contact list and called Garrett Single. He
answered immediately.
“Renée, how’s the noggin?”
“Garrett, listen to me. I need you to talk me through a field
trach.”
“Wait, what are you — ”
“Listen, there’s no time. I have a man here, he can’t
breathe. His upper throat is blocked. I have EMTs coming but
he won’t make it that long. Talk me through a field
tracheotomy. Now.”
“This is a gag, right?”
“Goddammit, no! I need you to tell me what to do. Now!”
“Okay, okay, uh, where exactly is the block?”
“Upper throat. He’s over a minute without air. He’s
circling.”
“Above or below the Adam’s apple?”
“Above.”
“Okay, good. Put something under his neck so it’s clear and
arched, jaw pointing up.”
Ballard put the phone on speaker, then placed it on the
floor. She reached under the bed and blindly grabbed a shoe
— a running shoe. She reached down with one hand to raise
Bonner’s neck, then shoved the shoe in like a wedge.
“Okay, got it. What’s next?”
“Okay, this is important — you have to find the spot.”
“What spot?”
“Use your finger and trace along the front of the neck. You
are looking for a spot between the rings. The Adam’s apple is
the big ring. Go below it and find the next ring.”
Ballard did as instructed and found the second ring.
“Got it, got it.”
“Okay, you want the soft spot between the rings — do you
have a knife? You need a scalpel or a knife to make a small
incision.”
Ballard reached up to the bed table and pulled the drawer
out completely. It dropped to the floor over Bonner’s head.
She scrambled her hand through the junk she had thrown in
there after moving in — all stuff she’d planned to find a spot
for later. She found the small Blackie Collins folding knife she
had carried when she was in uniform. She depressed the lock
and opened the blade.
“Okay, got it. Where do I cut?”
“Okay, the soft spot you found between the rings. The soft
tissue. You need to make an incision there. But first, you’re
sure he’s not breathing? You don’t want to do this if — ”
“He’s purple, Garrett. Just tell me what to do.”
“Okay, a small incision — like a quarter of an inch wide in
the soft tissue between the cartilage. Horizontal and not too
deep. You don’t want to go through the windpipe. No more
than half an inch.”
Ballard carefully positioned the point of the blade and
pushed it into the skin. Immediately blood came out and ran
down both sides of Bonner’s neck to the wood floor. But it
wasn’t much and Ballard took that as a sign that Bonner’s
heart was shutting down.
“Okay, I’m there.”
“Okay, you need to put in the tube so that air — ”
“Shit, what tube? I didn’t think — ”
Ballard reached over and swiped her free hand through the
junk drawer while carefully holding the knife in place in
Bonner’s neck. She saw nothing that would work.
“Do you have a plastic straw or a pen or anything that you
could — ”
“No! I don’t have shit! God — ”
She remembered something and yanked open the bottom
drawer of the bed table. After she had separated her
shoulder surfing a few years before, she had bought a
recirculating pump that pushed cold water into a rubber wrap
that she could lay over her shoulder to ease the pain and
swelling. A clear plastic tube connected the pump to the
wrap. She yanked it out of the drawer and put it down on the
floor.
“Okay, I found something. Can I take the knife out of his
neck to cut the tube?”
“Do it.”
“How long do you want the tube?”
“No more than six inches needed.”
Ballard pulled the knife back and quickly cut a six-inch
length of the tube with the razor-sharp blade.
“Okay, got it. What next?”
“Put one end of the tube through the incision and into the
airway. Don’t go more than an inch in. Just push it through.”
Ballard did as instructed and felt the tube break through
and into the windpipe.
“Okay, I’m in. Does he just start breathing, or what?”
“No, you have to get him started. Breathe into the tube.
Check his chest, make sure it’s rising. Not too hard. Be
gentle.”
Ballard jumped off Bonner and moved to his side. She
gently blew into the tube and saw his chest rise.
“Okay,” she said.
“All right, watch his chest,” Single said. “You want to see if
he breathes on his own.”
“It went down, that’s it.”
“Try it again, try it again.”
Ballard repeated the procedure, with no result.
“Nothing. Trying again.”
“You may have to breathe for him until the rescue gets
there.”
Ballard tried again and then crouched low so she could
watch the profile of Bonner’s chest. She saw it go down as air
escaped through the tube. But then it rose again on its own.
“I think … he’s breathing. Yes, he’s breathing.”
“Well done, Detective. How’s his color?”
Ballard looked at Bonner’s face. The purple was leaching
out of it. Fresh blood was circulating.
“It’s good. It’s getting there.”
“Okay, what I want you to do is call me back on FaceTime
so I can look at him. Can you do that?”
Ballard disconnected the call without replying and then
called back on FaceTime. While she waited for the call to go
through, she reached up to the top of the bed table to grab
her handcuffs. She snapped one cuff around Bonner’s right
wrist and clamped the other around the metal bed frame half
a foot away.
She looked down at Bonner. His eyes were slits and he
showed no sign of being conscious, but there was no doubt
that he was breathing. There was a low whistling sound
coming from the tube she had inserted into his neck.
Single answered the call and Ballard saw his face. It looked
like he was outside, and she could see the yellow brick of the
fire station behind him.
“You’re hurt,” he said. “Are you okay?”
For the first time, Ballard remembered the barrel of the
gun being dragged down her chin. She brought her hand up
to touch the wound and felt blood.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Take a look at him.”
She flipped the camera so Single could see Bonner on the
floor. She could now hear sirens but was unsure whether
they were on her end of the call or Single’s.
“You see him?”
“Yes. Uh, it looks good. Actually, it looks perfect. He’s
breathing and his color is good. You got rescue on the way?”
“Yeah, I think I hear them now.”
“Yeah, that’s them. They’re coming. Who is this guy? You
handcuffed him?”
“I just did that in case he woke up. I was sleeping and he
broke in. He was going to kill me with my own gun — I think
to make it look like suicide.”
“Jesus, why?”
“He’s a murder suspect. Somehow he found out I was onto
him and where I live.”
“Holy shit!”
“Yeah.”
Ballard tried to think of how Bonner could have known
about her and the investigation. The easy answer was Dennis
Hoyle. She had spooked Hoyle, and he in turn sent Bonner
after her. That reminded her — Bosch had been there as
well.
“Listen, Garrett, I need to make another call,” she said.
“Thank you so much for helping me.”
“I don’t know if I should have, if this guy was trying to kill
you,” he said.
Ballard smiled.
“That might be the sweetest thing anybody’s ever said to
me. I’ll call you later.”
“I’m here. And Renée, I’m glad you’re okay.”
After hanging up, Ballard immediately called Bosch. He
picked up, and there was no indication of stress in his voice.
“Harry, you’re okay?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Because Bonner just tried to take me out. He’s on the
floor of my apartment.”
“Give me the address. I’m on my way.”
“No, it’s handled. But you’re okay? I thought maybe he
went to you first.”
“All good. You sure you’re safe?”
“Yeah. I almost killed him. But I’ve got people coming. You
stay back but be ready. After I clear this, I want to pay a
visit to Dr. Hoyle.”
“I want to be there for that.”
Ballard disconnected. She heard the sirens cut off in front
of the building. She knew she had to work quickly. She
crouched down and started going through the pockets of
Bonner’s pants. She found a phone that looked like a cheap
convenience-store burner in one pocket and a small leather
wallet holding a set of lockpicks — Bonner’s way into the
apartment — in another. There was no vehicle key or
anything else.
She put the pick set back in the pocket where she found it
but buried the phone under the junk in the bed table drawer.
The rattle of jewelry and other belongings made Bonner stir.
There was a louder sound of rushing air from the breathing
tube and he opened his eyes as Ballard pulled back from the
drawer. He made a move to raise his upper body but then
quickly stopped as he sensed something was wrong. He tried
to move his right hand but it was cuffed to the bed frame. He
brought his left hand up to his throat and found the
protruding tube.
“You pull that out, you die,” Ballard said.
He looked at her.
“I crushed your windpipe,” she said. “That tube is what
you’re breathing through.”
His eyes moved about as he took in the room and the
circumstances. Without moving his head, he cast his eyes
down and saw the handcuff. He then looked at Ballard and
she saw something register in his eyes. It was like he
understood where he was and what was going to happen to
him.
In one swift move he reached up and yanked the breathing
tube out. He threw it over the bed and across the room. He
stared at Ballard as his face began to get red. It was then
that she heard the rescue team coming through the door to
her apartment.
30
Ballard was hours into her FID interview before she knew for
sure that Bonner was dead. Her two interviewers had keyed
in on what had happened after he had supposedly — their
word, not hers — pulled the tube from his neck.
“Look, why would I put the tube into his throat and try to
save the guy’s life and then pull the tube out again?” she
asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Sanderson replied.
Captain Gerald “Sandy” Sanderson was the lead
interviewer. He was also the officer in charge of the Force
Investigation Division — the man who for years had been
tasked with sweeping out the bad cops who got involved in
questionable shootings, choke holds, and other unauthorized
uses of force. Under the present pressures and politics of the
department and the public, it was wholly believed across the
ranks that any officer who got into a scrape of any kind was
out. The details of the incident didn’t matter. Sanderson was
there to sand down the sharp edges of the department and
make everything smooth. That meant washing out anybody
whose actions might be seen as controversial from any angle.
Ballard had felt it two minutes into her interview, not two
hours. A murder suspect had obviously followed her and used
lockpicks to break into her home while she slept. She had
defended herself, and the man had died, whether by his own
hand or not, and she was getting hammered by the very
people who should have her back. The world had gone
sideways, and for the first time in a long time Ballard thought
she might lose her job. And for the first time in a long time
she thought that might not be so bad.
The interview was taking place in the detective bureau of
the Northeast Division, which encompassed Los Feliz. This
was routine, but still Ballard felt cut off from her division and
the people she worked with. At one point, when Sanderson’s
second, Detective Duane Hammel, stepped out to get fresh
batteries for his recorder, Ballard saw Lieutenant Robinson-
Reynolds standing out in the bullpen. That gave her a
moment of relief because she knew he would be able to
confirm what he knew of her investigation. She had never
told him about Bonner but he knew from her last briefing
that she was closing in on something.
Ballard had not looked at the time since being woken by
Bonner’s attack. She didn’t know how long she had slept and
therefore couldn’t fix the hour. Her phone had been taken
from her. It was daylight when Bonner attacked and when
she was treated at the rescue wagon for the cut on her chin.
But now she had been in a windowless interview room for
what she estimated was two hours.
“So let’s connect the dots one more time,” Sanderson said.
“You’re saying you did not know and had no previous
interaction with Christopher Bonner, correct?”
“Yes, correct,” Ballard said. “The first time I met him — if
you want to call it meeting him — was when I woke up and
he was on top of me, trying to stick my gun into my mouth.”
“So, how is it that he knew where you lived, apparently
knew your schedule, and knew you would be asleep at three
o’clock in the afternoon?”
Ballard was thankful that Sanderson had slipped a time
marker into his question. She could now extrapolate that it
was somewhere between 6 and 7 p.m. But what was more
important was Sanderson’s asking how Bonner would know
her sleep schedule. There was no way Hoyle could know what
her assignment or work schedule was from her business card
or their brief interaction. She decided not to mention that in
her answer to Sanderson.
“As I have said repeatedly in this interview,” she said, “I
attempted to question Dennis Hoyle at the memorial
yesterday for Javier Raffa. He was clearly spooked. In a
homicide investigation, one of the first questions is, who
benefits? The answer in this case is Dennis Hoyle. My
attempt to interview him led to him jumping in his car and
driving away. He didn’t want to talk to me. I now have to
assume he called Bonner, and Bonner came after me. Those
are the dots and that is the connection.”
“It will bear further investigation,” Sanderson said.
“I hope so, because I don’t want Hoyle to get away with
this or with Raffa.”
“I understand, Detective. A moment please.”
Sanderson leaned back in his chair and looked down to his
legs. Ballard knew he had his phone on his thigh and was
probably getting texts from his other FID investigators.
Ballard, when she had worked with a partner, had followed
the same practice. It allowed for real-time information and
questions.
Sanderson looked up at her after reading the latest text.
“Detective, why is Harry Bosch calling your cell phone
every thirty minutes?”
Ballard had completely kept Bosch out of her story while
being questioned. She now had to answer carefully so as not
to step on any land mine. Having now been sequestered for
over two hours, for all she knew, Sanderson’s team had
already interviewed Bosch, and Sanderson already had the
answer. She had to make sure their stories matched even
though she didn’t know what Bosch had said or would say.
“Well, as you probably know, Harry is retired LAPD,” she
began. “I have had cases in the past that involved some of
his old investigations, and so I have known him for four or
five years and he’s sort of taken on a mentor’s role with me.
But specifically in this case, I told you that I linked the Raffa
murder to another case through ballistics. That case — the
victim’s name was Albert Lee — was investigated by Harry
Bosch nine years ago. When I made that connection, I
reached out to Bosch to pick his brain about the case and get
any sort of angle on this thing that I could.”
“And did you?”
“Yes, it was information from Bosch that allowed me to
further find out who benefits. In the Albert Lee case, his
business and insurance policy went to a dentist who had
loaned him the money to keep his business afloat. That
dentist was partners with Hoyle in another business. Bosch
helped me make those connections. Bonner became the
suspected killer in both cases. But I believe he was sent after
these victims, the same way he was sent after me.”
“By the dentists.”
“Roger that.”
Ballard immediately shook her head. She had to stop that.
“So, when we speak to Bosch, he will tell the same story?”
Sanderson asked.
“If he speaks to you,” Ballard said. “He did not leave the
department on good terms. So good luck with that.”
“And there is nothing romantic there between you and
Bosch?”
“If I was a man and I had reached out to a retired
detective with a connection to my case, would you ask me if
there was a romance between us?”
“I take that as a no.”
“You can take it however you want, but I am not answering
questions like that. But I am glad this is recorded.”
Sanderson tried to stare Ballard down but she didn’t blink.
“Now can I ask you something?” Ballard said.
“You can always ask,” Sanderson said. “I can’t promise I
will answer.”
“Have you found Bonner’s car?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because I assume that if he drove, he parked in my
neighborhood, and since he had nothing in his pockets but
lockpicks, I assume there will be a phone, wallet, maybe
notes and other things, in his car. Maybe the gun that killed
my two victims. If I were you, I’d be looking for his car right
now.”
“I can assure you that the investigation is continuing
outside this room, Detective. You don’t have to worry about
that.”
“Good. What about the media? Are they onto this yet?”
“Detective, in this room, I am asking the questions. You
have another repeat caller to your cell that I would like to
ask you about. Garrett Single, the paramedic you told us
coached you through the field tracheotomy. He has called
you more times than Bosch. Why is that?”
“Well, I won’t really know until I can talk to him and find
out, but my guess is that he wants to know if I’m all right.”
“He cares about you.”
“I think he does.”
Ballard braced for the romance question but Sanderson
surprised her.
“Thank you, Detective,” he said. “And for now I think we
have enough information from you. We are placing you on
desk duty until we complete our investigation. In the
meantime, I am ordering you not to contact or talk to the
media about this incident. If you are contacted by a person in
the media, you are to refer them to — ”
“Wait a minute,” Ballard said. “Who’s going to work the
case? We’re not going to drop it while you and your people
decide whether I did anything wrong.”
“My understanding is that the case has already been
transferred to West Bureau Homicide. They will take it from
here. By your own testimony, we are talking about a suicide.
I’m sure they will close it quickly and you will be back to
work.”
“I’m not talking about Bonner killing himself. I’m talking
about the Javier Raffa case and the Albert Lee case.”
“Again, West Bureau will handle it.”
What was in play here only then hit Ballard. Christopher
Bonner was ex-LAPD and that was an image problem. Not
only was it a huge issue that an ex-LAPD officer was likely a
hit man before and after he left the job, but whether he still
had connections in the department was unknown. Thanks to
Sanderson’s questions, Ballard already had one idea about
the ties Bonner still had. Add to that the missing murder
books, and this was a high-octane scandal waiting to explode
in the media. It was best to keep everything
compartmentalized. And tying together the murders of Albert
Lee and Javier Raffa and solving them would only work
against the department.
“I know what you’re going to do,” Ballard blurted out.
“Really?” Sanderson said. “What am I going to do,
Detective?”
“You’re going to sand and sweep. Like you always do. This
department is so fucked up. It’s like we don’t even care
about victims anymore. It’s protect and serve the image
instead of the citizens.”
“Are you finished, Detective?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m finished. Where’s my phone? Where’s my
gun? I want them back.”
Sanderson turned to look at Hammel, who had returned
and was standing with his back to the door.
“Her lieutenant has her phone,” the sidekick said.
Sanderson turned back to Ballard.
“Check with your lieutenant about the phone,” he said.
“Your weapon is being processed. You will get that back
when appropriate. In the meantime, you can ask your
lieutenant about a temporary replacement from the armory.
It may not be necessary, as for the moment you are
assigned to desk duty.”
He waited a moment for Ballard to respond. She didn’t.
“Then I think we’re finished here,” Sanderson said.
Everyone stood up. The men from FID were closest to the
door, and Ballard let them leave first. When she was last out
of the interview room, she found Robinson-Reynolds waiting
for her in an empty bullpen. Through the casement windows
Ballard could see that it was full dark outside.
The lieutenant stood up from the desk he had been leaning
on with folded arms.
“Renée, you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll take you back to your place.”
“Do you have my phone?”
“Yes. They gave it to me.”
Robinson-Reynolds reached into his suit coat pocket and
produced Ballard’s phone. She checked the screen to see
what calls had come in. Five minutes earlier Bosch had once
again tried to call her.
She decided not to call him back until she was alone, but
while her lieutenant watched, she quickly fired off a text
telling Bosch she was fine and would call him in a half hour.
Ten minutes later she was in the front passenger seat of
Robinson-Reynolds’s car, telling him to get to Commonwealth
Avenue and head south.
“You’re probably going to want to pack some things and
stay somewhere else for a while,” Robinson-Reynolds said. “A
friend’s place, or if you want a hotel, I’ll find a way to make
the department cough up a chit for it.”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Ballard said.
“You sure? Your room is probably a mess — courtesy of
Forensics.”
“I’ve got a big couch.”
“Okay, Renée.”
“So, what about West Bureau?”
“What about it?”
“Ross Bettany called me to take over the case. I’m
supposed to meet him tomorrow.”
“Then meet him. He’s still taking it.”
“I want to know if they’re going to work it. Bonner was
LAPD. It felt in there with Sanderson that this wasn’t going
anywhere, because solving it means putting that out there:
veteran LAPD officer turned hit man.”
“You really think they would cover it up — a murder?”
“It’s two murders — at least. And yes, I do, because
Bonner, the shooter, is dead. As far as Sanderson goes, it’s
case closed. Taking it the next step and going after the
people who ordered the hits, that’s dangerous, because all of
the Bonner stuff will tumble out and the department gets its
ass kicked once again.”
“Don’t overthink it, Ballard.”
Ballard noticed he was back to addressing her by her last
name.
“It’s not overthinking,” she said. “It’s the reality we live in.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s going to be West Bureau’s
reality, not ours. So just follow protocol, Ballard. Turn the
case over to the guy and go back to work on the Midnight
Men.”
“Roger that.”
She said it in a tone of resignation that signaled that she
would never say those two words again.
31
What complications?
When?
THE INSURRECTION
36
Ballard turned off her phone Tuesday night, got into her
sweats, and slept for ten hours on her living room couch, still
not ready to return to the bedroom, where she had almost
died. She woke up Wednesday in pain, her body sore from
the struggle with Bonner as well as the uneven support
provided by the couch. Pinto was curled up asleep at her
feet.
She turned on her phone. Though suspended, she had not
been removed from the department-wide alert system. She
saw that she had gotten a text announcing that all divisions
and units in the department were going on tactical alert
again following civil disturbances in Washington, D.C., and
expected protests locally. It meant the entire department
would mobilize into twelve-hour shifts in order to put more
officers out on the streets. By prior designation Ballard was
on B shift, working 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. under the response plan.
She reached for the TV remote and put on CNN. Her screen
immediately filled with the images of people, hordes of them,
storming the U.S. Capitol. She flipped channels and it was on
every network and cable news channel. The commentators
were calling it an insurrection, an attempt to stop the
certification of the presidential election two months before.
Ballard watched in stunned silence for an hour without
moving from the couch, before finally sending a text to
Lieutenant Robinson-Reynolds.
I assume I am still on the bench?
Ballard quickly got her laptop and went to the Los Angeles
Times website. Bosch was old-school — he got the actual
newspaper delivered. Ballard was an online subscriber. She
found the story Bosch was referencing prominently displayed
on the home page.
LAPD GAMBLED ON SERIAL RAPE
INVESTIGATION:
MORE VICTIMS ENDED UP
ASSAULTED
by Alexis Stanishewski
Times Staff Writer
After two men broke into a Hollywood home and raped a woman, the Los Angeles
Police Department launched a full-scale investigation.
But the supervisor of the investigation elected to keep it quiet in hopes of
identifying and capturing the rare team of rapists. No warning was put out to the
public and at least two more women were attacked over the next five weeks.
The case, according to sources, is an example of the choices investigators face
in pursuing serial offenders. A suspect’s routine can lead to capture, but drawing
public attention to a crime spree can result in identifiable patterns changing,
making the culprits more difficult to apprehend.
In this case, three women were sexually assaulted and tortured by men who
broke into their homes in the middle of the night, prompting investigators to label
them the “Midnight Men.” On Wednesday, officers in the Media Relations Unit
remained mute on the case, while Lieutenant Derek Robinson-Reynolds,
supervisor of Hollywood Division detectives, refused to explain or defend his
decision to keep the investigation quiet. The Times has filed a formal request for
police reports related to the crimes.
One of the victims said she was upset and angry to learn that the police knew
of the rapists before she was assaulted on Christmas Eve. Her name is not being
used because of the Times’s policy not to identify victims of sex crimes.
“I feel like maybe if I knew these guys were out there, I could have taken
precautions and not been a victim,” the woman said tearfully. “I feel like first I
got raped by these men and then again by the police department.”
The victim described a harrowing four hours that began after she was awakened
in her bed by two men wearing masks, who blindfolded her and took turns
assaulting her. The victim said she believed that the two men were going to kill
her when the brutal attack was over.
“It was horrible,” she said. “I keep reliving it. It is the worst thing that has ever
happened to me.”
Now she wonders if her ordeal could have been prevented if the police
department had informed the public of the Midnight Men.
“Maybe they would have stopped or maybe they would have just moved on if
they knew the police were onto them,” the victim said.
USC crime sociologist Todd Pennington told the Times that the Midnight Men
case underlines the difficult choices faced by law enforcement.
“There is no good answer here,” he said. “If you keep the investigation under
wraps, you stand a much better chance of making an arrest. But if you keep quiet
and don’t make that arrest quickly, the public remains in danger. You are damned
if you do and damned if you don’t. In this case, the decision backfired and there
were additional victims.”
Pennington said serial offenders rarely stop committing crimes unless stopped
by police.
“You have to realize that even if the police had gone public with their
investigation, it is unlikely that these two men would have stopped their crimes,”
he said. “Instead, they would have changed their patterns. But most likely there
would still have been additional victims. And that’s the dilemma we face in
deciding whether to go public. It’s a no-win situation for the police.”
Ballard’s face had grown hot while she read the article. Two
paragraphs in, she knew that the department would likely
peg her as the anonymous source for the story, since the
only named villain was the man who had sought her
suspension. She also knew this would not be the end of it.
The Times was the paper of record and, as such, set the
example for most of the other media in the city. There was
no doubt that every local news broadcast would jump on this
story, and the department would be under the magnifying
glass once again.
She read the article one more time and this time took heart
in what it didn’t reveal. It made no mention of the attacks all
occurring on holidays, and it did not reveal the pattern of
streetlight tampering. The source of the story had been
careful about what information about the case got out to the
public.
Ballard was confident that she knew who the source was.
She picked up her phone and called Lisa Moore. With each
ring she grew angrier, so that when the call finally went to
voice mail, she was ready to fire with both barrels.
“Lisa, I know it was you. I’ll probably get blamed but I
know it was you. You jeopardized an entire investigation just
to spite Robinson-Reynolds for putting you on nights. And I
know you calculated that I would get the blame for this. So
fuck you, Lisa.”
She disconnected, almost immediately regretting the
message she had left.
39
The story played for two days on the TV, radio, and Internet
news, largely fueled by a hastily called press conference at
the PAB in which an official department spokesman
downplayed the Times report, saying that evidentiary
connections between the crimes were tenuous, but the fact
that each case involved two perpetrators seemed to connect
the cases. Luckily for the department, the Capitol
insurrection clogged airtime and newspaper space, and the
story disappeared in the undertow of the larger story. Ballard
never heard from Robinson-Reynolds, though his silence
seemed to confirm his belief that she was the initial leak.
Ballard also never heard back from Lisa Moore, even to deny
the accusation she had left in her message.
Another story that didn’t get any traction was the arrest of
a well-respected dentist in a murder conspiracy. Ballard was
now an outsider on the case but she gathered from a call to
Ross Bettany that the investigation was moving slowly. While
the arrest of Jason Abbott was put out to the media, the
involvement of Dennis Hoyle as a cooperating witness and
ex-cop Christopher Bonner as a hit man had been
successfully kept quiet. Ballard knew it wouldn’t stay quiet
forever, especially when court hearings started, but the
department had always operated according to the unspoken
policy of spreading out the hits to its reputation whenever it
possibly could.
On Saturday Ballard took a call from Garrett Single, who
asked if she and her new dog wanted to come for a hike.
Ballard had texted him a photo of Pinto earlier. He suggested
Elysian Park because there was so much shade along the
way. Ballard had not hiked Elysian since she was a cadet at
the nearby police academy. She thought Pinto might enjoy it
and, as Single had pointed out, the trail was dog-friendly and
likely to be less crowded than other popular hiking spots.
Ballard agreed to meet there, as Single was coming in from
his home in Acton, which was far on the other side of the San
Gabriel Mountains. Ballard knew of the community as a place
where many firefighters lived because they only went to and
from work once a week, working three days on and sleeping
in the firehouse, then getting four days off. A couple two-
hour drives a week were not a big deal.
Monday morning Ballard woke up in Acton, having spent
the last thirty-six hours with Single. His home was wedged
into a rugged mountainside in the Antelope Valley, where, he
had warned her, coyotes and bobcats roamed freely. She
made coffee while Garrett showered, and stepped out onto a
back deck that overlooked a garden that he told her he had
been working on for months. She had a blanket from the
couch wrapped around her shoulders. The time with Single
had been good but Ballard had felt uneasy and frustrated the
whole time. She had been pushed out of everything. The
Raffa case had moved into the prosecutorial phase, so that
didn’t bother her as much as being completely out of the
Midnight Men investigation. What doubled the frustration was
the fact that she had been vilified by Cindy Carpenter and
had heard nothing from Lisa Moore on how the case was
being pursued. It left her with little confidence that anyone
was getting closer to identifying and apprehending the tag
team rapists.
She was pacing in the brush and running the facts of the
case through her mind when she heard Single come up
behind her. He put one arm around and used the other to
pull her hair back from the nape of her neck. He kissed her
there.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“About what?” she asked.
“The view. I mean, look at this place.”
Ballard hadn’t even noticed. She hadn’t been looking past
her thoughts on the case.
“It’s pretty,” she said. “Stark.”
“It is,” Single said. “It’s why I like it.”
“No, you like it for the real-estate value and the wide-open
space. Cops and firefighters always want space.”
“True. But I gotta be honest. I like the sharp ridges out
here.”
“Then I gotta be honest. It’s too far away from the water.”
“What do you mean? We got the Santa Clara River right
over that ridge.”
“Yeah, I’m talking about an ocean. The Pacific Ocean. Last
I heard, you can’t surf the Santa Clara River — even when
there is water in it.”
“But it’s a good counterpoint, mountains and oceans, isn’t
it? The desert and beach have got at least one thing in
common.”
“Sand?”
“You guessed it.”
Single laughed, and when he stopped, Ballard could hear
her phone buzzing on the kitchen counter inside. It was the
first time in thirty-six hours, and she had thought she was
outside the limit of her cell service, but here it was: a call.
“Let me try to grab that,” she said.
“Come on,” Single said. “We’re talking about the future
here.”
She hurried in through the door but the phone’s buzz died
before she reached it. She saw the number was a city
exchange but didn’t recognize it. She hesitated calling back
blindly. It could be about her Board of Rights hearing. She
still didn’t know if it would take place as scheduled after she
had been taken off suspension and then placed back on. She
waited and soon a voice-mail message notice appeared on
the screen. She reluctantly played it back.
“Detective Ballard, Carl Schaeffer here from the Bureau of
Street Lighting. I saw all the fuss on the news about the so-
called Midnight Men and I’m guessing that’s your case and
the cat is sort of out of the bag. But just in case it still
matters, I wanted to let you know we got a maintenance call
today on a light over in Hancock Park and I’m here if you
want to know the details.”
Ballard immediately called Schaeffer back.
“Detective, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Schaeffer. I got your message. Did you send
anyone out to repair the light?”
“No, not yet. I thought I’d check with you first.”
“Who called it in?”
“A guy we know over there — we sort of call him the mayor
of Windsor Square. It’s not on his street but people there just
sort of know he’s the go-to guy on streetlights and other
neighborhood stuff. He called it in this morning. Just now, in
fact. Right before I called you.”
“Can I get his name?”
“John Welborne.”
Schaeffer also gave Ballard the phone number Welborne
had called from to initiate the maintenance request.
“Was I right about the Midnight Men — them being why
you came here about the lights?”
“What makes you say that? Was there something in the
paper about streetlights?”
“Not that I saw. I just kinda put two and two together. The
paper said three different women were attacked, and you
had asked about three different streetlights.”
“Mr. Schaeffer — Carl — I think you could’ve been a smart
detective, but please don’t talk to anyone about this. That is
not fully confirmed and it could hurt the investigation if it
becomes public knowledge.”
“Completely understood, Detective. I have not told a soul
and I certainly won’t. But thanks for the compliment. I
thought about being a cop way back in the day.”
Single came in from outside and saw the serious look on
Ballard’s face. He held his hands wide as if to ask if there was
anything he could do. Ballard shook her head and continued
with Schaeffer.
“Can you give me the address of the streetlight we’re
talking about, Mr. Schaeffer?” she asked.
“Sure can,” Schaeffer said. “Let me look it up here.”
He read off an address on North Citrus Avenue.
“Between Melrose and Beverly,” he added helpfully.
Ballard thanked him and disconnected. She looked at
Single.
“I’ve gotta go,” she said.
“You sure?” he said. “I don’t go back in till tomorrow. I
thought maybe we’d take the dog and — ”
“I have to. This is my case.”
“I thought you didn’t have any cases anymore.”
Ballard didn’t answer. She went back to his bedroom to
gather her things and get Pinto out of his travel crate, where
he was sleeping. She had been using clothes out of the surf
bag she kept in the car, while Pinto had been treated to
canned food from a mini-market in what passed for the town
center of Acton. Her stay with Single had started as just a
home-cooked meal from Single’s backyard barbecue — he
had revealed in Elysian Park that he prided himself on good
barbecue and she had put him to the test.
After walking Pinto in the scrub area surrounding Single’s
home, she loaded her things and the dog into the Defender
and was ready to go.
At the open door, he kissed her goodbye.
“You know, this could work,” Single said. “You keep your
place in town and surf when I’m on shift. Three days on the
water, four in the mountains.”
“So you think because you make a great pulled chicken
sandwich that a girl’s just gonna swoon and fall into your
arms, huh?” she said.
“Well, I also make a great brisket if you’d go back on the
red meat.”
“Maybe next time I’ll break down.”
“So there will be a next time?”
“A lot’s going to ride on that brisket.”
She gently pushed him away and got in the Defender.
“You be careful,” he said.
“You too,” she replied.
On the way south to the city she waited until she cleared
the Santa Clarita Valley and had solid phone service before
calling the number she had been given for John Welborne.
The call went to the Larchmont Chronicle, the community
newspaper that served Hancock Park and its surrounding
neighborhoods, for which, she learned, he was the publisher,
editor, and reporter. That he was a member of the media
made the call a bit tricky. Ballard needed information from
him but didn’t want it to end up in his paper.
“Mr. Welborne, this is Detective Ballard with the LAPD. Can
I talk to you for a few minutes?”
“Yes, of course. Is this about the article?”
“Which article?”
“We published a story Thursday about the fundraiser for
the Wilshire Division officer who lost his wife to Covid.”
“Oh, no, not that. I’m with Hollywood Division. I need to
talk to you off the record about something unrelated to the
newspaper. I don’t want it in your paper — not yet, at least.
This is an off-the-record conversation. Okay?”
“Not a problem, Detective Ballard. We’re a monthly, and
it’s a couple weeks till deadline anyway.”
“Good. Thank you. I want to ask you about your call this
morning to the Bureau of Street Lighting. You left a message
reporting that there’s a streetlight out on North Citrus
Avenue.”
“Uh, yes, I did leave a message, but Detective, I didn’t
suggest that any crime had been committed.”
“Of course not. But it may have some connection to a case
we’re investigating. That’s why we were alerted and that’s
also the part I want to keep quiet.”
“I understand.”
“Can you tell me who told you about the light being out?”
“It was a good friend of my wife, Martha’s. Her name is
Hannah Stovall. She knew she could call me and I’d alert the
appropriate authorities. Most people don’t even know we
have a Bureau of Street Lighting. But they know that I know
people who know people. They come to me.”
“And she called you?”
“Actually, no, she sent an email to my wife, asking for
advice. I took it from there.”
“I understand. Can you tell me what you know about
Hannah Stovall? For example, how old do you think she is?”
“Oh, I would say early thirties. She’s young.”
“Is she married, lives alone, has roommates — what?”
“She’s not married and I’m pretty sure she lives by
herself.”
“And do you know what she does for a living?”
“Yes, she’s an engineer. She works for the Department of
Transportation. I’m not sure what she does but I could ask
Martha. This sounds like you are seeing if she fits into some
sort of profile.”
“Mr. Welborne, I can’t really share with you what the
investigation is about at this time.”
“I understand, but of course I’m dying to know what is
going on with our friend. Is she in danger? Can you tell me
that?”
“I — ”
“Wait — is this about the Midnight Men? It’s in the same
general area of at least two of the attacks.”
“Mr. Welborne, I need you to stop asking me questions. I
just want to assure you that your friend is not in danger and
we will take all safeguards possible to keep it that way.”
Ballard tried to change the subject.
“Now, do you know where the streetlight is in relation to
her home? How close is it?”
“From what I understand, it is right in front of her house.
That’s why she noticed it was on one night, out the next.”
“Okay, and can you give me a phone number for Hannah
Stovall?”
“Not offhand, but I can get it. Can I call you back at this
number in a few minutes? I just need to call my wife.”
“Yes, I’m at this line. But Mr. Welborne, please don’t tell
your wife what this is about, and please don’t you or your
wife call Hannah about this. I need to keep her line clear so I
can call her myself.”
“Of course, I’ll just tell her that the number’s needed for
the streetlight maintenance order.”
“Thank you.”
“Stand by, Detective. I’ll get right back to you.”
40
Ballard held off on calling Hannah Stovall until she had a plan
that she could confidently share with her. Strategizing the
moves she would make, she drove the rest of the way into
the city in silence, with the exception of a short call to Harry
Bosch. She knew if there was no one else to back her play,
there would always be Bosch. She asked him to stand by
without telling him what he would be standing by for, and he
didn’t object. He simply said he would be ready and waiting
for anything, that he had her back.
She got into Hollywood shortly after 1 p.m., took Melrose
to North Citrus Avenue, and turned south to cruise by the
streetlight in front of the address Carl Schaeffer had given.
She did not slow as she passed. She just surveyed and kept
moving. Citrus was on the outer edges of what could be
considered Hancock Park. It was on the west side of
Highland, and the houses here were smaller postwar family
homes with single-car garages. Slowly the neighborhood was
being infiltrated by redevelopment, which came in the form
of two-story cubes being built to the limits of the lot and then
walled and gated. Next to the single-level Spanish-style
homes that originally populated the neighborhood, the
redevelopment looked sterile, soulless.
As she drove, Ballard checked the vehicles parked curbside
for any signs of surveillance but saw nothing that indicated
that the Midnight Men might be watching their next victim. At
Beverly, she turned right, made a U-turn when she could,
and then came back to Citrus. She headed back up the street
the way she had come. This time when she passed the
streetlight in question, she glanced at the plate at the bottom
of the post to check for any sign of tampering. She saw
nothing, but she had not expected to.
Back on Melrose she turned right and immediately parked
at the curb in front of Osteria Mozza. The popular restaurant
was closed due to Covid, and parking at the moment was
plentiful. She pulled up her mask, got out, and opened the
hatch. She got Pinto out of his crate and snapped on his
leash. She then walked the dog back toward Citrus, taking a
return call from John Welborne while on the way. He supplied
Hannah Stovall’s phone number and the additional intel that
she was most likely home at the moment because she was
working from home during the pandemic.
Ballard turned south on Citrus and started down the street
on the west side — which would take her by the streetlight.
She took it slow, allowing the dog to set the pace while
sniffing and marking his way down the street. The only tell
she might have given — if the Midnight Men were watching —
was to pull Pinto away from the streetlight in question so that
he would not mark it and possibly destroy evidence.
Ballard surreptitiously checked the house where Hannah
Stovall lived. There was no car in the driveway, and the
garage was closed. Ballard noted that it was an attached
garage that surely had internal access to the house, just as
with the home of Cindy Carpenter.
Ballard kept walking and at Oakwood crossed Citrus and
turned back north, walking the other side of the street like a
pet owner wanting to give her dog new lawns to sniff and
mark.
She checked the dashboard clock after she got back to the
Defender. It was two-thirty and possibly a little early to start
her plan. She also had Pinto to consider.
There was an overnight dog kennel on Santa Monica
Boulevard near the Hollywood Station. She had used it on
occasion for Lola and knew it to be clean and welcoming and
not too crowded. Best of all, she would be able to use her
phone to access the camera in the so-called playroom to
check on Pinto.
It took an hour to get to Dog House, start a new account,
and put Pinto up for the night. Ballard’s heart hurt as she
realized the dog might think he was being rejected and
turned back in to a shelter. She hugged him and promised to
come back the next day, assuring herself more than the dog.
Her parking place in front of Mozza had gone unclaimed
and she pulled back in shortly before four, adjusting her
mirrors so she could pick up any vehicles coming out of North
Citrus Avenue behind her. She then made the initial call to
Hannah Stovall and the strategy she had formulated kicked
into gear.
Her call was picked up right away.
“Hello, I’m looking for Hannah Stovall.”
“That’s me. Who’s this?”
“I’m calling about the report of a streetlight that is out on
your street?”
“Oh, yes. Right in front of my house.”
“And how long would you estimate that it has been out?”
“Just since yesterday. I know it was working Saturday
because it shines over the top of my shades in my bedroom.
It’s like a night-light for me. I noticed it was gone last night
and I emailed Martha Welborne this morning. This seems to
be a lot of attention for one little streetlight. What’s going
on?”
“My name is Renée Ballard. I’m a detective with the Los
Angeles Police Department. I don’t want to scare you, Ms.
Stovall, but I believe someone may be planning to break into
your home.”
Ballard knew no gentler way to put it, but as she expected,
Stovall reacted with extreme alarm.
“Oh my god — who?”
“I don’t know that but — ”
“Then how do you know? You just call people up and scare
the shit out of them? This doesn’t make sense. How do I
know you’re even a cop? A detective or whatever you say
you are.”
Ballard had anticipated having to prove who she was to this
woman.
“Is this number a cell phone?” she asked.
“Yes,” Stovall said. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Because I’m going to hang up and text you photos of my
police ID and my badge. Then I’ll call you back and explain
what’s going on in fuller detail. Okay, Ms. Stovall?”
“Yes, send the text. Whatever this is, I want it to be over.”
“So do I, Ms. Stovall. I’m disconnecting now and will call
you back.”
Ballard ended the call, pulled up photos of her badge and
police ID, and texted them to Stovall. She waited a few
minutes for them to land and be viewed, then called back.
“Hello.”
“Hannah — can I call you Hannah?”
“Sure, fine, just tell me what’s going on.”
“Okay, but I’m not going to sugarcoat this, because I need
your help. There are two men out there targeting women in
the Hollywood area. They invade their homes in the middle of
the night and assault them. We believe they knock out the
streetlights near the victim’s home a night or two before the
attack.”
There was a long silence only punctuated by the repeated
intake of breath.
“Hannah, are you all right?”
Nothing.
“Hannah?”
Finally she came back with words.
“Are they the Midnight Men?”
“Yes, Hannah.”
“Then why aren’t you here right now? Why am I alone?”
“Because they might be watching you. If we make a show,
we lose the chance to capture them and end this.”
“You’re using me as bait? Oh my fucking god!”
“No, Hannah. You’re not bait. We have a plan to keep you
safe. Again, that’s why I’m calling you instead of showing up.
There’s a plan. I want to tell it to you but I need you to be
calm. There is no reason to panic. They don’t come during
the day. They — ”
“You said they could be watching.”
“But they are not going to break in during daylight hours.
It’s too dangerous for them, and the fact that your light is
out proves they’re coming at night. Do you understand?”
No answer.
“Hannah, do you understand?”
“Yes. What do you want me to do?”
“Good, Hannah. Stay calm. In an hour this will be over for
you and you’ll be safe.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes, I promise. Now, this is what I want you to do. You
keep your car in your garage, right?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of car is it? What color?”
“It’s an Audi A-six. Silver.”
“Okay, and where do you do your grocery shopping?”
“I don’t understand, why are you asking me this?”
“Just bear with me, Hannah. Where do you shop?”
“Usually at the Pavilions on Vine. Melrose and Vine.”
Ballard was not familiar with the store but immediately
computed that this was a different location from the markets
frequented by the other three victims of the Midnight Men.
“Is there a coffee shop inside?”
“There’s a Starbucks.”
“Okay, what I want you to do is get in your car and go to
Pavilions. If you have reusable bags, carry one of them in
like you’re going to do some light shopping. But first go to
the Starbucks. I will meet you there.”
“I have to leave here?”
“It’s going to be safest if you are not there tonight,
Hannah. I want to get you out without anything looking
unusual. You are just going to the store to pick up a coffee
and some dinner. Okay?”
“I guess. Then what?”
“I’ll meet you there, we’ll talk some more, and then I’ll put
you in the hands of another detective, who will make sure
you are guarded and safe until this is over.”
“When should I leave?”
“As soon as you can. You drive up to Melrose and go right
and head to the store. You’ll pass me and I’ll be able to tell if
you are followed. Then I’ll meet you at the Starbucks. Can
you do this, Hannah?”
“Yes. I told you I could.”
“Good. Put a toothbrush and anything you might need for
an overnight stay in the reusable bag. But don’t take a lot.
You don’t want it to stand out.”
“Well, I’ll need my computer. I have to work tomorrow.”
“Okay, your computer is fine. Make it look like you are
carrying more bags inside the one you’re carrying.”
“Got it.”
“And what about a mask? What color do you have?”
“Black.”
“Black is good. Wear that.”
Ballard knew she would have to wear her LAPD mask inside
out.
“Okay, one other thing, Hannah.”
Ballard looked down at what she was wearing. Because she
had come straight from Acton, she was casually dressed, in
jeans and a white oxford borrowed from Single.
“Do you have a pair of jeans and white blouse you can
wear?” she asked.
“Uh, I have jeans,” Stovall said. “I know everybody has a
white blouse. But not me.”
Ballard looked over her shoulder to the back seat, where
she had various jackets and other clothing.
“How about a hoodie?” she asked. “You have a red or gray
hoodie?”
“Yeah, gray,” Stovall said. “I have it right here. Why are
you asking about my clothes?”
“Because I’m going to take your place. Wear the gray
hoodie when you come to Starbucks.”
“Okay.”
“What’s the length and color of your hair?”
“Jesus. I have short brown hair.”
“Do you have any hats you can wear?”
“I’ve got a Dodgers cap.”
“Perfect. Wear that, and text or call me on this number
before you leave. That way I’ll be ready.”
“I’ll text.”
They disconnected. Ballard was concerned that Hannah
might do something that would stand out to anyone who had
her under surveillance. But it was too late to worry about it
now.
It was now time to call in backup. Ballard felt too alienated
from her own department to go inside for help. She was
already working without a net and probably providing more
fodder for the upcoming Board of Rights hearing. Taking
stock of her situation, she noted that her boss was the one
trying to fire her, while her partner on the Midnight Men case
had been anything but a partner. Lisa Moore had proven
herself to be unreliable, lazy, and vindictive.
There was no doubt in Ballard’s mind who she needed to
call.
He answered immediately.
“Okay, Harry,” Ballard said. “Now’s when I need you.”
41
She sent off the message, satisfied that she had at least
given Moore the chance to be involved in her own case. She
next called Neumayer’s desk phone because she didn’t have
his cell. And the first flaw in her hasty plan emerged. The call
went to voice mail and she heard Neumayer’s voice: “This is
Detective Neumayer. I am going to be out of town until
January nineteenth and will respond to your call then. If this
is an emergency, dial nine-one-one. If this is about an
ongoing case, please call the direct line to the detective
bureau and ask for Detective Moore or Detective Clarke.
Thank you.”
Ballard knew she should now call Robinson-Reynolds or at
the very least Ronin Clarke, but she did neither. She decided
to wait and see if she got a call back from Lisa Moore.
Her rash and incomplete planning was now beginning to
weigh on Ballard. She thought about calling Bosch and taking
him up on his offer to be there as backup. But she knew she
couldn’t leave Hannah Stovall unguarded, no matter how
unlikely it was that the Midnight Men knew her current
location. She tried to examine her motives in moving so
quickly with a plan that was so incomplete. She knew it was
all wound up in her growing disillusion with the job, the
department, the people that surrounded her. But not with
Bosch. Bosch was the constant. He was more steadfast than
the whole department.
She tried to push the grim thoughts away by pulling up the
video from the playroom at Dog House to check on Pinto. The
image on the screen was grainy and small but she managed
to see Pinto lying low under a bench, watching the action of
the other dogs, possibly too timid to join in. She had quickly
reached a point where she loved the little dog, and she
wondered why someone had mistreated and abandoned him.
Somehow, in the crosscurrents of thought, she came to a
decision. Maybe it was all in the moment, but she knew the
moment had been a long time coming.
She clicked off the video feed and composed a short email
to Lieutenant Robinson-Reynolds. She reread it twice before
hitting the send button.
Immediately, she was flooded with a feeling of relief and
certainty. She had made the right decision. There was no
looking back.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a call back from Lisa
Moore’s cell number.
“What the fuck are you doing, Renée?”
“What am I doing? Let’s see. I got a solid lead and I’m
following it. I know that may sound like out-of-the-box
thinking but — ”
“You’re suspended. You’re on the bench.”
“You think the Midnight Men are on the bench? You think
you scared them away? Your little move last week to take the
lieutenant down a notch just made them change things up,
Lisa. They’re still out there, and I know where they’re going.
They’re coming to me.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ll tell you what, stand by. I’ll call you when I need you.”
“Renée, listen to me. Something’s wrong. Your judgment is
off. Wherever you are, you need backup and you need a
plan. You’re giving the department all they need to get rid of
you with a stunt like this. Don’t you see that?”
“It’s too late. I got rid of them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just quit. I sent the lieutenant my resignation.”
“You can’t do that, Renée. You’re too good a cop.”
“I already did.”
“Then, what are you doing right now? Get out of there and
call in backup. You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. You — ”
“I’ve always been in harm’s way. But I’m not a cop
anymore. That means no rules. I’ll call you when I need you.
If I need you.”
“I don’t get it. What are you — ”
Ballard disconnected. And immediately she felt the
euphoria and assuredness of her decision start to slip away.
“Shit,” she said.
She stood up and slid her phone into her back pocket.
Picking up the gun, she held it down by her side. She walked
to the door, having decided to take another sweep of the
house so she would know the layout by heart should she
need to maneuver in the dark.
She had just entered the hallway when the house started
shaking. Not an earthquake, just a low vibration. A tremor.
She realized that someone was opening the garage door.
43
Ballard was walking up Finley with Pinto when she saw the
black SUV double-parked in front of her building. She had
been on a pre-drive walk with the dog so he could take care
of business before she headed out to surf Trancas Point. It
would take over an hour to get out there. The surf report had
a west swell and winds out of the north, perfect conditions
for Trancas. She hadn’t been to the Point since before the
pandemic and was looking forward to being on the ocean up
there and riding a few waves. She would go alone, except for
the dog. Garrett Single was on duty.
As she got closer she could hear the SUV idling and could
tell by the license plate that it was a city car, not a vehicle
from a limo service waiting on an airport run. A large man in
a suit waited by the passenger-side door for the return of his
passenger. She pulled out her earbuds and killed the music
on her phone. Marvin Gaye was singing “What’s Going On.”
When she got to the security gate, she saw a man with
gray hair and in a full police uniform, four stars on the collar.
It was the chief of police. He heard the dog’s collar jingle and
turned to see Ballard approach.
“Detective Ballard?” he asked.
“Well, I’m Ballard,” she said. “It’s not ‘Detective’ anymore.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Have we met
previously?”
“No, not in person. But I know who you are, Chief.”
“Is there a place we can talk privately?”
“I don’t think anyone can hear us here.”
The point was clear. She wasn’t inviting him in.
“Then here is good,” he said.
“What can I do for you?” Ballard said.
“Well, I’ve been apprised of your work on some of the
cases that have made recent headlines. Your uncredited
work, I should say. Both before and after you turned in your
badge.”
“And?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge. Ballard
recognized the number. It was the one she had worn until
two weeks earlier.
“I want you to take it back,” he said.
“You want me to come back?” she asked.
“I do. The department needs to change. To do that, it has
to change from within. How can we accomplish that if the
good people who can make change choose to leave?”
“I don’t think the department wants someone like me. And
I don’t think the department wants to change.”
“It doesn’t matter what the department wants, Detective
Ballard. If an organization doesn’t change, it dies. And that’s
why I want you back. I need you to help bring the change.”
“What would my job be?”
“Whatever you want it to be.”
Ballard nodded. She thought about Bosch and how he had
told her that change had to come from within. A million
people protesting in the street wasn’t enough. And she
thought about the partnership she and Bosch had planned.
“Can I think about it, Chief?” she said.
“Sure, think about it,” he said. “Just don’t take too long.
We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
He held up the badge.
“I’ll keep this until I hear from you,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Ballard said.
The chief headed back to the car, and the driver held the
door for him. The black SUV took off down Finley, and Ballard
watched it go.
Then she went surfing.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS