“For what?”
“What?”
“Too late for what?”
“Too late for none of your fucking business.”
“You’re right. I don’t want to know your business. I just want to finish ours. Where’s the money?”
“In the pocket of the guy you told to stay in the van. He’s the buyer. I’m just the go-between.”
“Then you can go get the money from him.”
“I sure can.”
Dehaven picked the two beach bags up by the straps, one in each hand, and turned from the Cherokee.
“No, they stay here till you bring me the cash,” Bosch said.
“Oh, come on, man,” Dehaven said. “You’ll get your money.”
He attempted to walk past Bosch to the van, but Bosch put his hand in front of Dehaven’s chest. Dehaven shrank back from it.
“Don’t touch me, man,” he said.
“You want the guns, you pay for the guns,” Bosch said.
Ballard could feel the mounting tension between the two men. They stood there staring at each other for a long moment before Dehaven dropped the bags to the ground.
“Fine, tough guy,” he said. “I’ll get you your money.”
He walked past Bosch to the van. He reached in through the open passenger window, and it appeared to Ballard that he took something from the driver, though the hand-pass was below the window line.
Dehaven turned toward Bosch as he took his hand out of the window. The move was smooth and quick. While making the pivot, he dropped his hand to his side, guarding it from Bosch’s view.
Ballard’s eyes jumped from one screen to another as she looked for an angle on Dehaven’s left hand. Olmstead beat her to it.
“Gun!” he yelled into the microphone. “Blue, blue, blue!”
Blue was the go word. In the command post, Ballard didn’t hear the shots, but almost immediately after Olmstead yelled the word into his mic, she saw Dehaven’s body jerk from the impacts of at least two sniper hits. He collapsed to his knees and then fell backward to the asphalt, a handgun next to his left hand.
Ballard saw Bosch drop to the ground and crawl to the side of the Cherokee for cover.
The van started forward and she saw the flash of gunfire from inside as the driver shot at Bosch through the open passenger-side window. But Bosch got to a safety point against the rear tire of his car.
Then came the explosion of glass as sniper shots pierced the van’s windshield and took out the driver. The van kept moving for twenty-five yards and drove directly into one of the concrete pedestals of the parking lot’s light poles. It stopped and Ballard saw no movement from inside.
“Clear the van!” Olmstead barked. “Clear the van!”
On the wide screen, Ballard saw FBI cars race across the lot to the van. She saw Bosch crawl back to Dehaven. He shoved the gun away and put a hand to Dehaven’s neck to check for a pulse. He bent over the body and turned an ear to listen for breath.
He straightened up and looked directly at one of the cameras.
“Dehaven’s down for good,” he said.
Agents wearing black assault gear were now on foot and moving in on the van, their weapons trained on the driver’s position. One agent got to the door and opened it. The driver tumbled out to the ground. Another agent opened the side door while a third covered. They moved in weapons-first and in a moment backed out.
Ballard heard the all-clear call on the radio.
“Spencer, get us over there,” Olmstead said.
Spencer jumped up and went through a curtain to the front cab of the van. Olmstead followed him and took the front passenger seat. The engine roared to life and took off with such a jerk that Ballard was thrown into the back doors. They popped open and she fell to the street.
The van didn’t stop. From the ground, she watched it drive away.
30
By the time Ballard got to the parking lot, agents were already stringing yellow tape around the shooting scene, using the light poles as the corners of a huge restricted area. People, including many of the roller-hockey players, gathered at the perimeter. Ballard was attempting to lift the tape and walk under when an agent in bad-ass black commando clothes and gear stopped her. She identified herself, but he would not let her into the crime scene without permission from his superiors.
“Then call Olmstead,” she said. “Tell him Ballard wants in.”
While the agent whispered into a wire-thin microphone attached to his earpiece, Ballard massaged her shoulder, which she had landed on hard when she fell out of the van.
“He said he’s coming,” the agent said.
“When?” Ballard demanded.
“Now.”
She saw Olmstead break away from a huddle of agents near the Cherokee and head toward her.
“Why’d you jump out of the van?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” Ballard said.
“What? We got here and you were gone.”
“Whatever. Can you tell this guy to let me in?”
“You don’t want to be here, Renée. This went sideways and the media is going to be all over it. Helicopters, cameras — you don’t want to be on video.”
She knew he was right but she didn’t want to leave.
“Then I want to talk to Bosch. Send him out here.”
“He’s being debriefed.”
“I don’t care. You’ll be talking to him for hours. I just need five minutes to make sure he’s okay.”
“All right, five minutes, then you get away from here.”
He turned to walk back to the scene but then pivoted and returned to the yellow tape. “So far, no badge,” he said. “We checked the body. We still need to go through the van.”
“Fine. Let me know.”
“Will do.”
He walked away and Ballard watched as he was immediately intercepted by another agent holding a clipboard. They started discussing something and Ballard thought he was going to forget to send Bosch to her. But once he signed something on the clipboard, he went directly to the command-post van, opened the back door that Ballard had fallen through, and signaled Bosch out. Once Harry was out of the van, he was pointed to Ballard, and he headed her way.
“Harry, you okay?” Ballard asked as he approached.
“I’m okay,” he said.
“You sure? You don’t have to talk to them right now if you’re—”
“Renée, I’m okay.”
Ballard nodded. “Jesus, that was close.”
“Yeah, well... they were ready for it.”
“How’s your car?”
“It took a few shots, I think. I haven’t really checked.”
“Maybe time to get something new.”
“I just got that after the last one got shot up.”
Ballard looked up at the sound of a helicopter and saw a blue chopper banking over the beach. It said FOX in white letters on the side.
“The media’s already getting here,” she said.
“That’s SkyFox,” Bosch said. “Stu Mundel.”
“You actually know the pilots of the news choppers?”
“I know him. He’s good. I like watching those live freeway chases. Helps me go to sleep at night.”
“Harry Bosch, a man of mystery. Anyway, I shouldn’t be here, so I’m going to go. But will you call me as soon as they cut you loose? Maybe we can meet up.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I’m out,” Bosch said.
He walked up to the yellow tape and reached an arm across to hug her. Ballard was surprised by the move from the usually undemonstrative Harry Bosch but took a step forward and put her arms around him. She patted his back and felt a twinge of pain in her shoulder.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Harry,” she said.
“Me too,” he said.
They separated.
“Check your pocket when you get to your car,” Bosch said.