“Well, this wasn’t a murder. How’d Ms. Clark come to hire you from New York?”
“Recommendation from the M.E. I give out a lot of business cards. And gifts at the holidays. People recommend me. I’ll give you a stack of cards if you’ll take them.”
“Maybe later. I don’t do many crime scenes like this. Not a lot of murders in Hollywood these days and I’m usually on graveyard.”
“They had that five-spot last year at the Dancers. I got that one. Worked four days cleaning up that mess and then they never reopened the joint.”
“I know. I was there that night.”
Dillon nodded.
“I think I saw you on TV for that,” he said.
Ballard decided to get back on track.
“So, you come in, you see the prints are gone. Then what?” she asked.
“I backed out and called you guys,” Dillon said. “Then I waited about an hour for them and then they waited an hour for you. I’m not getting any work done and Ms. Clark lands at ten tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sorry about that, but we have to conduct the investigation — especially if we’re talking about a major theft. We’ve hopefully got a print car coming soon and we’ll need to get yours so we can exclude them. I’m going to ask you to step outside now and wait with the officers while I work in here.”
“How long before I can go to work?”
“I’ll get you cleared as soon as possible but I don’t think you’re getting in here today. Someone will have to do a walk-through in as-is condition with Ms. Clark after she arrives.”
“Shit.”
“Sorry.”
“You keep saying that but I don’t make money on sorries.”
Ballard understood his concerns as the owner of the company.
“I’ll tell you what, get me some of your cards, and I’ll keep them handy down the line.”
“I’d really appreciate that, Detective.”
Ballard followed him out of the house and asked Felsen about the print car. He said the ETA was fifteen minutes and Ballard knew from experience that all waiting times on the print car should be doubled. The car was assigned to the entire West Bureau and was operated by a latent-print tech who responded to all needs, ranging from property capers to violent crimes. It was safe to say the print car tech never stopped working.
Technically, Ballard was supposed to follow a protocol in which she would first study the crime scene and look for likely spots where the suspect could have left prints. Only upon finding possibilities should she call for the print car. But in reality, when it came to property crimes, the practice was the opposite. Delaying in calling the print car added up to long waits. She always called first to get her case in line and then started looking at the scene. She could then call the car off if she didn’t find any likely deposits.
Ballard knew she was pushing her luck with Dillon but took a shot anyway at asking if he had a spare breathing mask. He surprised her by saying yes.
He walked to the back of his truck and rolled up the door. The interior was stuffed with wet vacuums and other equipment. He pulled a box of throwaway masks out of a drawer in a tool chest and handed her one.
“The filter in there is good for a day,” he said. “That’s it.”
“Thank you,” Ballard said.
“And I’ve got my cards right here.”
He reached into another drawer and took out a stack of about ten business cards. He gave them to Ballard, who saw that the small print under CCB was the company’s formal name: Chemi-Cal Bio Services. She put the cards in her pocket and thanked Dillon, even though she knew her opportunities to recommend his services would be few.
She left him there and went back inside the house, pulling on the breathing mask as she went. She stood in the living room and took in the place, observing and thinking. The removal of the source of decomposition — the body — would explain the decrease in noxious odor. But Ballard had been in houses like this before in the days after death and she believed that more than the removal of the body had helped the process. She concluded that she was looking for an open window.
She moved to the far wall of glass and soon realized that the panels were on tracks that disappeared into a wall. The panels could be pushed into the wall, creating a wide opening onto the rear deck and giving the house an indoor-outdoor style. She slid open the first glass panel and stepped out onto the deck. She saw that it ran the length of the house behind the guest bedroom and the master. On the far end of the deck sat a rectangular air-conditioning unit. It had been removed from the wall below a window and left there. It must have been the burglar’s access point and the opening from which some of the decomp stink had escaped.
Ballard walked down the deck to look at the opening. It was at least two feet tall and three wide. The AC unit looked relatively new. The homeowner had probably added it to provide extra cooling in the bedroom during the hottest weeks of summer.
Ballard had the point of entry. Now the question was, how did the burglar get to it? The house was cantilevered over the steep hillside. She stepped to the guardrail and looked down. That was not the way. It would have been too difficult a trek, requiring ropes and hoists. That kind of planning conflicted with the fact that the air conditioner had been left out of its wall slot. This indicated the sloppy work of an opportunist, not a planner.
She looked up. The roof of the deck was supported in four places by ornate black ironwork that formed a repeating pattern of tree branches crossing between two risers. Whether intentional or not, each one created a makeshift ladder down from the roof.
Ballard stepped back into the house and went out the front door. Dillon was leaning against his truck. When he saw her, he straightened up and spread his arms wide questioningly.
“Where’s the print car?” he asked. “When am I going to get out of here?”
“Soon,” Ballard said. “Thank you for your patience.”
She pointed to his truck.
“But in the meantime, I saw you had a ladder on the wall inside your truck,” she said. “Could I borrow it for a few minutes? I want to get on the roof.”
Dillon seemed happy to have something to do, especially if it further indebted the LAPD to him.
“No problem,” he said.
While Dillon got the ladder, Ballard stepped out into the street and walked along the front of the house. The design of the structure was all geared toward the view out the other side. That’s where the deck, windows, and glass doors were. This side, which was just three feet from the curb, was drab and monolithic save for the front door and one small window to the master bathroom. This fortresslike design was softened with alternating concrete planters containing bamboo stalks and vine-entwined lattices. Ballard studied the latticework and saw places where the vines had been damaged by someone using the connections as foot- and handholds for climbing. It was another improvised ladder.
Dillon banged an extension ladder against the house. Ballard looked over and he gestured with his hand: all yours.
While Dillon held the ladder steady, Ballard climbed to the flat roof. She walked toward the back edge, looking for footprints in the gravel or any other evidence of a burglar. There was nothing.
She got to the far edge and looked out at the view. It was getting dark and the setting sun was turning the sky red and pink. She knew it would be a good sunset at the beach. She momentarily thought of Aaron and wanted to check in on him to see if he had any news on the man he had pulled out of the riptide.
Turning her attention back to the case at hand, she was now sure she had found the burglar’s path. He had climbed up the lattice in the front, crossed the roof and climbed down the ironwork on the back deck. After removing the air conditioner, he had entered and taken the three prints off the wall as well as whatever other property might be missing. At that point, he simply walked out the front door with the stolen goods, leaving the front door slightly ajar.