She moved to the carport and checked the side door. It too was locked.
Back out on the street, she walked to the other side and studied the house from afar. She thought about the way Bechtel, the art thief, had gotten in to steal the Warhols. She saw that the carport was supported by a cross-hatched ironwork with squares she judged to be large enough to use as footholds.
She headed across the street again.
Just as she had done three days before, Ballard climbed up to the roof and then crossed it to the rear edge. Every house with a view had a rear deck and she wasn’t disappointed by Bosch’s home. She checked a gutter for the strength of its moorings, then gripped it with both hands and swung down to the deck. She dropped the remaining three feet without a problem.
Something was definitely strange. The slider was open wide enough for her to slip inside without having to push it further. She stood in the middle of a small, sparsely furnished living room. Visually, nothing seemed wrong.
“Harry?”
No answer. She stepped further in. She noticed an odd food smell.
There was an alcove with a dining room table and a wall of shelves behind it that contained books, files, and a collection of vinyl records and CDs. On the table she saw an unopened bottle of water and a paper bag from Poquito Más, its sides stained with grease. She touched the bag and bottle. Both were room temperature. The bag was open and she looked down into it. She saw wrapped food items and knew the food had gone uneaten for a long time and was the source of the smell in the house.
“Harry?”
She said it louder this time but that didn’t change the lack of response.
Stepping into the entryway by the front door, she looked into the galley kitchen that led to the carport. Nothing seemed amiss. She saw a set of keys on the counter.
She turned and walked down the hallway toward the bedrooms. A series of thoughts rushed through her mind as she moved. Bosch had said Elizabeth Clayton had mysteriously moved out. Had she come back to harm him? To rob him? Had something else gone wrong?
Then she thought about Bosch’s age. Was she going to find him collapsed in the bed or bathroom? Had he pushed himself too far with lack of sleep and exhaustion?
“Harry? It’s Ballard. You here, Harry?”
The house remained silent. Ballard nudged open the door of a bedroom that obviously was Bosch’s daughter’s room, with posters and photos on the walls, stuffed animals on the bed, her own phonograph, and a thin collection of records. There was a framed photo on the night table of a young girl hugging a woman. Ballard assumed it was Bosch’s daughter and her mother.
Across the hall was another room, with a bed and a bureau. All very basic and spartan. Elizabeth’s room, she guessed. A communal bathroom off the hallway was next. And then the master bedroom, Harry’s room.
Ballard entered and this time only whispered Bosch’s name, as if she expected to find him asleep. The bed was made with a military precision, the spread tightly tucked under the edges of the mattress.
She checked the bathroom to finish the search but she knew Bosch was gone. She turned back and walked all through the house and out onto the deck. The last place she needed to check was the steep embankment below the cantilevered house.
The arroyo down below was overgrown with heavy brush and acacia and scrub pine trees. Ballard moved up and down the length of the deck, changing her angles of view so she would be able to see all of the ground below. There was no sign of a body or any sort of break in the natural shape of the canopy of branches.
Satisfied that the house and grounds below were clear, Ballard folded her arms and leaned down on the railing as she tried to decide what to do. She was convinced something had happened to Bosch. She checked her watch. It was now ten o’clock and she knew the detective bureau at Hollywood Station would be in full swing. She pulled her phone and called her boss, Lieutenant McAdam, on his direct line.
“L-T, it’s Ballard.”
“Ballard. I was just looking for the overnight log and couldn’t find it.”
“I didn’t write one. It was a slow night. No calls.”
“Well, that’s one in a million. Then what’s up?”
“You remember I put on the overnight earlier this week that I’m working the cold case with the girl who got snatched nine years ago?”
“Yes. Daisy something, right?”
“Right, yeah. And I was working it with Harry Bosch.”
“Without my permission, but yeah, I know Bosch was in on it.”
“He had the watch commander’s permission. Anyway, here’s the thing. Bosch was supposed to come in this morning and go through old shake cards with me and he didn’t show.”
“Okay.”
“Then we had an appointment with a guy at USC and Bosch didn’t show for that either.”
“Did you call him?”
“I’ve been calling him all morning. No answer. I’m now at his house. The back door was open, there’s uneaten food from last night just sitting on the table, and it doesn’t look like his bed has been slept in.”
There was a long silence as McAdam considered everything Ballard had said. She thought he was on the same concerned wavelength as her, but when he finally spoke, it was clear that he wasn’t.
“Ballard, are you and Bosch... involved in some way beyond this case?”
“No. Are you kidding me? I think something happened to him. I’m not — He’s missing, Lieutenant. We need to do something. That’s why I’m calling. What should we do?”
“All right, settle down. My mistake, okay? Forget I said anything. So, when exactly was he supposed to show up on this thing?”
“There wasn’t an exact time. But he said he’d be in early. I was looking for him around four or five.”
Again, silence.
“Renée, we’re talking about six hours at the most here.”
“I know but there’s something wrong. His dinner’s sitting on the table. His car’s here but he isn’t.”
“It’s still too soon. We have to see how it plays out.”
“Plays out? What are you talking about? He was one of us. LAPD. We need to put out a bulletin, get it on RACR at least.”
RACR, pronounced racer, was an internal text alert system through which messages could be sent to the phones of thousands of officers at once.
“No, it’s too soon,” McAdam said. “Let’s see what happens over the next few hours. Text me the address and I’ll send a car up there after lunch. You’re done for the day.”
“What?” Ballard said.
There was exasperation in her voice. McAdam wasn’t seeing what she was seeing, didn’t know what she knew. He was handling this wrong.
“You’re done, Renée. I’ll send a car up later to check on Bosch. We’ve got to give this at least twelve hours. I’ll call you later when we know more. It’s probably nothing.”
Ballard disconnected without acknowledging McAdam’s order. She was afraid that if she said anything further it would be in a high-pitched voice that was near hysterical.
She kept her phone out and looked up the number for the San Fernando Police Department. She made the call and asked to be transferred to the detective bureau. A woman answered but identified herself too quickly for Ballard to pick up the name.
“Is Harry Bosch there?”
“No, he’s not. Can someone else help you?”
“This is Detective Ballard with the LAPD. Can I speak to his partner, please? This is urgent.”
“We don’t have partners here. It’s interchangeable. We—”
“I need to talk to whoever he was working with last — on the gang murder where the witness was killed.”