She came across one at the top of a four-box stack that was marked Taxes 2012–2022. She pulled the box down to the floor. It was heavy. When she took off the top, she saw that it was filled end to end with files with different years marked on the tabs. She took out the last file, marked 2022, opened it, and found a photocopy of an IRS tax return.
“I’ve got tax records here,” Ballard called out.
“What’s the name?” Bosch called back.
“Thomas Dehaven.”
“I’ve got that name on a couple of things over here. He must be the badge buyer.”
“Get this. I’m looking at an IRS return for last year. If this is our badge buyer, then the sovereign plate and all of that is bullshit. He’s a poseur.”
“What’s the address?”
“Uh, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.”
“Take a photo and let’s keep going. We can’t stay here all night.”
“Got it. Luck is fluid.”
“That’s right.”
Ballard used her phone to take a photo of the tax return. She replaced the file and put the top back on the box. Standing up, she counted the boxes in the small room. There were sixteen along one side and another thirteen on the opposite wall. The majority were marked Books followed by a classification of fiction or nonfiction. She went through all of these first, opening them to find in each a row of books spine out. Thomas Dehaven favored contemporary mystery and horror. Ballard saw the names of several authors she recognized, including some she had even read: Child, Coben, Carson, Burke, Crumley, Grafton, Koryta, Goldberg, Wambaugh, and many others.
“Guy doesn’t read Chandler,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Bosch said.
“There’s a book collection over here, mostly mystery and true crime. But no Chandler.”
“His loss.”
“What do you have over there?”
“A lot of junk. Clothes, ski equipment, fishing poles, and—”
His report was cut short by the sound of the automated doors at the front of the facility opening and closing. Someone had entered.
Ballard stepped out of unit 22 and into the aisle. Bosch was already there. They stood listening and heard muffled voices. More than one person was inside. Bosch held his hand out as if to stop Ballard from speaking even though she knew to be quiet.
There was a metallic bang and then the harsh sound of a metal door being rolled up. Whoever had come in had gone down one of the other aisles to a storage unit.
“Luck is fluid,” Ballard whispered.
“How much more time do you need?” Bosch whispered.
“I have four boxes left.”
“I have about the same. Let’s get it done.”
“Quietly.”
They returned to their respective units. Ballard went quickly through the last four boxes in hers. They contained household items like pots and pans, cooking utensils, dishware, and knickknacks that might have come off shelves in a kitchen: Thanksgiving salt- and pepper shakers that looked like pilgrims, a coffee cup with the previous president’s booking photo and the words Presidential Mug on it, and four ceramic coasters that said Keep Calm and Carry above the silhouette of a gun, a different gun on each.
Ballard heard the roll-down door from the other aisle shut with a bang. She stepped out of the storage unit and listened. She again heard muffled voices as whoever had entered earlier made their way back to the exit.
Bosch stood on the threshold of unit 23 listening as well. When he heard the automatic doors at the front open and then close, he nodded to Ballard and went back to work. Ballard followed him into 23. It was not as neatly kept as 22, though Ballard could not tell whether that was because of Bosch’s search or because it had been that way when he found it.
“Anything in twenty-two?” he asked.
“Not since I found the tax records in the first box I opened,” Ballard said. “What about here?”
“No, just that.” He pointed to a stack of three cardboard boxes.
Sitting on top of it was a white jewelry box. Ballard stepped over and opened it. The inside of the lid was a mirror. Below it were felt-lined sections containing gold and silver bracelets and earrings. Ballard rarely wore jewelry and was not equipped to judge the value of what she was looking at.
“Why do you have this out?” she asked.
“Because we need to take something if we’re going to convince him that this was a random burglary,” Bosch said.
“Come on. It’s one thing to break in here, but I don’t want to take anything. That’s a line I don’t think I can cross.”
“You don’t have to. I will.”
“Harry, we—”
“Look, these assholes — they’re up to something. Something big. An hour ago you said so yourself. Something that’s going to require four machine guns. So I’ll cross whatever line I have to if it stops whatever it is from happening. And I won’t second-guess myself for one minute.”
Ballard understood and nodded.
“Okay,” she said.
“So, I’m done in here,” Bosch said. “No badge.”
“No, no badge.”
“I’m beginning to think I know where it is.”
“Where?”
Bosch closed the jewelry box and put it under his arm, ready to go. He kicked the stack of boxes over.
“Clipped to his belt or on a chain around his neck,” he said. “It might be part of their plan, but it’s also his get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“How so?” Ballard asked.
“If he gets pulled over or stopped anywhere, he shows the badge,” Bosch said. “You know, says he’s working, maybe claims to be undercover. He uses it to talk his way out of getting his ass cuffed up.”
Ballard thought there had to be a bigger purpose for wanting the badge.
“Maybe,” she said.
“I know a way to test it out,” Bosch said.
“How?”
“Let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you.”
Thursday, 8:39 A.M
19
Ballard and Bosch were squeezed into one side of a booth at Mary and Robbs Café in Westwood. The other side was empty.
Bosch checked his watch. “You sure this guy’s going to show?”
“He’s never stood me up before. He’s probably walking over.”
“You mean, like, stood you up for a date? That sort of thing?”
“No, Harry. It’s strictly a professional relationship.”
“You trust him?”
“I wouldn’t have called him if I didn’t trust him. Gordon is a good guy. He’s helped the unit on a lot of cases. The FBI obviously moves a lot faster on out-of-state warrants than we do because they’ve got agents everywhere. And it’s a fact that people who think they’ve gotten away with murder tend not to hang around. They split, and having a go-to guy in the Bureau is gold. I know your relationship with the FBI was... fraught, but that was then and this is now.”
“‘Fraught.’ Yeah, I think that might be a bit of an understatement.”
The waiter brought a mug of coffee for Ballard and black tea for Bosch.
“What’s with the tea?” Ballard asked. “You were always a black-coffee guy.”
“I don’t know,” Bosch said, shrugging. “People change.”
She nodded and watched him over the rim of her cup as she sipped. He looked beat, and once again she felt guilty for enlisting him in whatever this was.
“You doing okay, Harry?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look tired. Maybe we should—”