Most of the debris was discarded willy-nilly on the sand or in the seagrass rimming it. But one can of Red Bull stood upright. Ashes around the pop-top hole indicated that it had been used as an ashtray. This seemed unusual to Ballard, considering that the spot was out in the open, and ashes could easily be flicked into the wind.
She snapped on latex gloves and picked up the can by the rim using two fingers so as not to smudge any prints on the barrel. She gently shook the can, and it seemed empty of liquid, but there was something inside. She guessed it was a cigarette butt or the end of a joint. She pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket and put the can in it. It was possible that the can had been handled by the thieves who ripped her off, but it was a long shot. Still, she had learned over the years to follow her hunches. Sometimes they paid off.
Looking out across the beach to the water, she saw one surfer already out there in the early light of dawn. He wore no wetsuit, and Ballard knew it was her breakfast suitor, Van.
Ballard wished she were out there, not standing on a bluff with an evidence bag in her hand. She wondered if there would ever come a time when she didn’t carry latex gloves and evidence bags in her pockets.
She walked back down to the parking lot and saw that there was now another vehicle there, a vintage VW van painted light blue with white trim. Windows all around, and surf racks on the roof. It had to be Van’s van, and she wondered if Van was really his name or a nickname he’d picked up because of the VW. Either way, she liked him better for what he drove and its connection to the surf culture of the past.
She got back in the Defender and took the Pacific Coast Highway to the 10 freeway, which would take her through downtown and out to Cal State L.A., where the department’s forensics lab was located.
On the way she stopped at the beach at Topanga and looked around, but there were no surfers and not much action on the break. She looked for the fruit vendor mentioned in the Dawson police report but he was nowhere in sight, and Ballard wasn’t going to wait to see if he showed. The Red Bull can in the evidence bag on the seat next to her was front of mind and she wanted to get it to the lab without further delay.
The PCH curved east through the tunnel in Santa Monica and transitioned to the 10 freeway. Twenty minutes later she was through downtown and taking the exit for the lab complex the LAPD shared with the sheriff’s department. The latent-prints unit was on the first floor, and as it did in the DNA lab three floors above, the Open-Unsolved Unit had a go-to tech there assigned to handle its print requests. But criminalist Federico Beltran was not as accommodating as Darcy Troy. Ballard was hoping that by coming in person to deliver a piece of evidence for examination, she could avoid delay.
After parking, she pulled her phone and called Paul Masser. She didn’t want to run into him in the building and have to explain what the Red Bull can was all about. When he answered, she could tell he was in a moving car.
“Hey, did you get to the lab yet?” she asked.
“Just left. Darcy said she’d put the samples through today.”
“Samples?”
“I gave her both. As you said last night, it would be good to identify the woman and get her genetic signature.”
Ballard nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see her. “Okay, but will it slow Darcy down, having two samples to send to DOJ?”
“I don’t see how it could, but if you want me to call her back and say hold off on the lipstick, I will.”
“No, never mind. I’m overthinking it.”
“She said she’d be quick.”
“Good. Where are you headed now?”
“Norwalk to pull Nicholas Purcell’s birth certificate — if he was born here in the county. After that, back to the barn.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there later. I’ve got an errand to run this morning. Tell Colleen not to panic if I’m late.”
“I’m sure she will anyway.”
Ballard disconnected and realized she had a problem: She needed her ID to get inside the building. She had been to the lab so many times during her career that she knew every one of the security officers who manned the front entrance. More than once, she had been waved through without showing her ID, but she always had it with her. It would be just her luck if a new guard was on post today and asked her for it.
She thought about possible solutions for a few moments and then got out and opened the back door of the Defender. She had a plastic carton there that contained her crime scene equipment — overalls, booties, rubber boots, gloves, hats, crime scene markers, extra notebooks, and a camera. She hadn’t needed most of it during her time in the Open-Unsolved Unit because the crime scenes in those cases were long gone. But she needed it now. She put the bag containing the Red Bull can on top of the carton, kicked the door of the Defender closed, and carried the whole thing to the building.
As she went through the automatic doors, Ballard exaggerated the weight of the carton and tried to hurry by the check-in desk, where a security guard sat. She recognized him, but he was fairly new and might not recognize her. She quickly read his nameplate — Eastwood — as she moved by, and it prompted her to remember his obvious nickname.
“Hey, Clint,” she said. “Ballard, Open-Unsolved, going to see Rico in Latents. Can you put me down?”
“Sure thing,” Eastwood said. “Badge number?”
“Seven-six-five-eight.”
“All you need is a nine.”
“What?”
“To make a straight.”
Ballard threw out a fake laugh. “Oh, yeah, right. Can you hit the door?”
“Sure can. You need help with that? Looks heavy.”
“No, I got it. Thanks.”
Eastwood buzzed the automatic door and it opened. Ballard was in. She walked down the hall to the latent-prints section and put the crime scene carton down next to the door. She went in with the evidence bag containing the can.
Federico Beltran was already in his cubicle looking at side-by-side fingerprints on a large computer screen. Ballard knew this was the last step in making a print match. The computer pulled matches from all databases the department subscribed to around the country, and it was the tech’s job to eyeball the matches for accuracy and make the call.
“Rico, my favorite print man,” Ballard said. “How are you this fine morning?”
Beltran looked up at her; she was leaning on the half wall to the right of his screen. “Ballard,” he said. “I’m busy this fine morning.”
“Well, I’m going to have to add to your plate,” Ballard said. She raised her hand from behind the wall so he could see the evidence bag containing the can. Beltran groaned like Ballard had known he would.
“Come on, now,” she said. “Cheer up. I’m only laying one item on you. It could be a lot worse.”
“Leave it on the desk and I’ll get to it,” Beltran said.
“Actually, I need this on a priority, Federico. I’m going to wait on this one.”
“You can’t. I’m in the middle of a case here.”
“And I can see you’re at the end of it, so finish that and run with mine. You’re our guy and the key to solving this case. You could be a hero, and we won’t forget to mention you in the press release.”
“Right. We never get the kudos. You people hog all the glory.”
“But not this time. I just need you to vape this can and see what you get. Two hours tops, and if there’s any kudos to hand out, your name’s first on the list.”