“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
Ballard crossed the center courtyard to use the stairs, because the building’s elevator was so slow. But before she got to the first step, she heard her name called. She turned and saw a man stepping out the door of his first-floor apartment. He came toward her. It was the bicyclist she had met over the weekend, but already she couldn’t remember his name.
“Hi,” she said.
“Some crazy stuff here today,” he said. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine now.”
“I mean, I was told a guy broke in and tried to kill you.”
“He did. But it’s complicated and the police are investigating.”
“But you are the police.”
“Yes, but I’m not investigating this, so I can’t really talk about it.”
She started to move back toward the stairs.
“We aren’t used to this sort of thing here,” the neighbor said.
Ballard turned back.
“That’s a good thing, then,” she said. “Neither am I.”
“Well, I know you’re new,” the neighbor said. “And I hope that this sort of thing isn’t going to be normal. I feel as HOA president that I need to say that.”
“I’m sorry, what is your name again?”
“It’s Nate. We met in the—”
“The garage, I remember. Well, Nate, I don’t consider it normal when somebody tries to kill me in my bed. But you should know that he was a stranger and that it was a break-in, and I was thinking that the next time you have a homeowners’ meeting, you might want to review the security around here. He got in here somehow, and I’d hate to see the HOA be held responsible for anything. That could be expensive.”
Nate blanched.
“Uh, totally,” he said. “I, uh, I’m going to call a special meeting to review building security.”
“Good,” Ballard said. “I’d like to hear how that goes.”
This time she turned and Nate had nothing further to say. She took the steps two at a time and found her front door had been left unlocked by the investigators. Typical LAPD incompetence. She locked it after entering and quickly moved through the apartment to her bedroom. The junk drawer she had pulled out of the bed table that afternoon during the struggle with Bonner was still on the floor. She could see fingerprint dust on its handle. Rooting through the drawer, she found the burner phone she had buried in the junk. She snapped it open and saw that it had either been powered off or its battery had died.
She fumbled with it, looking for the on/off button and found none. She held her thumb down on the 0 button but nothing happened. She then tried the 1, and the phone’s screen finally came to life. Once it was fully booted, she went to work checking for stored numbers and recent calls. There were none but the texting app had a single message, timed at 4:30 p.m. that day from an 818 area code. It was just one word: Report.
“Got you,” she whispered.
She stared at the phone for a few moments, considering her next move. She knew she had to be careful and conservative. If she answered the text wrong, the lead could disappear like cigarette smoke in the wind. If she used the phone in any way — to text or call — she could be tampering with evidence. She decided to wait and closed the phone. She went into the kitchen and put it in a Ziploc bag and sealed it. Pulling her own phone, she called Bosch.
“You up for a ride?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said. “When?”
“Now.”
“Come get me.”
“On my way. And, uh, I’ll need a gun. They’re processing mine and my backup’s in my locker.”
“Not a problem.”
Ballard liked how he answered without any question or hesitation.
“Okay, see you soon,” she said.
32
After pulling out of the garage, Ballard drove around the block and found a SID team working under portable lights on Hoover, a block behind her building. There was a flatbed from the OPG moving into position in front of a black Chrysler 300. A table had been set up under one of the crime scene lights, and Ballard recognized the face of the man with a clipboard, writing on what she assumed was an evidence log. She pulled to the curb, got out, and approached the lights.
“Reno,” she said.
Reno looked up and clearly remembered Ballard from the callout to Cindy Carpenter’s house.
“Detective Ballard,” he said. “You okay? Sounded like a close call for you.”
“It was,” Ballard said. “Did you work my apartment too?”
“I did.”
“Cool. And this is the dirtbag’s car?”
“Yeah, we’re going to take it to the print shed.”
“Where’d you find the key?”
“On the front left tire.”
Ballard looked down at the table. There were three brown paper evidence bags with red tape sealing them. One had a sticker that warned anyone handling it that the bag contained a firearm. She tried to hide her excitement and act as though she was already in the know.
She pointed at the bag.
“Is that the P-twenty-two?”
“Yup. Also found up in the wheel well. Not a good place to hide a weapon. We always look there first or second. And supposedly he used to be a cop — from what I hear.”
“What about ammo?”
“Just what was in the weapon.”
“Remington?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, well, have a good night.”
“You too.”
Ballard returned to her car. She was confident that the gun found in the wheel well of Bonner’s car had been used in the two homicides she had connected.
She headed off toward Bosch’s house, checking the time on the dashboard. She figured that she could pick up Bosch and get to Hoyle’s house by eleven. The late hour would work in her favor. Nobody likes a cop to knock on their door that late at night.
Her phone buzzed and she saw that it was Garrett Single calling.
“Hey, Garrett.”
“Renée, hi. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m so glad to hear it.”
“Thanks for your help. Sorry if it sounded like I was yelling at you.”
“Not at all. But, hey, I thought you should know, some detectives from SID were just here talking to me about it.”