“You’re Rodney Van Ness?” Ballard asked.
“All day,” Van Ness said. “What do you want?”
This time the meaning of the question was clear.
“Mr. Van Ness, we’re with the LAPD. We need to ask you some questions in regard to an investigation we’re conducting involving crimes in Los Angeles.”
He held his hands up. “You got the wrong guy,” he said. “I haven’t been back to L.A. since my father’s funeral, and that was six years ago.”
“You’re not a suspect in anything, Mr. Van Ness,” Ballard said. “But we think you may have information that can help us identify a suspect. That’s why we came across the desert to talk to you.”
“Well, then, ask away.”
“Actually, we want you to come with us. We have a reservation for a booth at the Triple George. It would be best to do this in a quiet spot like that. Away from any distractions.”
“Uh... I thought this would be like a ten-minute thing. You said I’m no suspect, and I have stuff I gotta do today. You know, like, before work.”
“That’s okay. We won’t keep you long and you’ll get a free lunch out of it. Why don’t you put some shoes on? I’m sure you want to cooperate with the police, don’t you?”
Van Ness said nothing for a moment. Ballard knew he was measuring the implied threat in her words, a simple statement that even a glorified security guard like Van Ness would understand: Those who don’t cooperate with the police could very quickly become suspects.
“All right, let me get some shoes,” he finally said. “Can Harm come too?”
“Uh, do you mean Harmony?” Ballard asked.
“Yeah, Harmony. You mentioned lunch. We don’t have anything here.”
“Tell you what — leave Harmony home, and you can order takeout to bring back to her. On us. But it would be better if we spoke just to you.”
“Okay, I guess. I’ll get my shoes.”
He stepped back and closed the door.
Just in case he was staying on the other side of the door, watching through the peephole and listening, Ballard looked at the time on her phone and said, “We get this over by one, we drop him back here, and then we hit the road,” she said. “We’ll be back in L.A. by five.”
“That would be cool,” Maddie said, playing off the wink Ballard had given her. “I’ve got a date tonight.”
43
Rodney Van Ness had done Ballard a favor by just throwing on shorts and a shirt earlier, and he was wearing only sandals when he came out the door of his apartment. By the time they had walked down the stairs and into the parking lot, she was able to determine that he was not carrying a weapon. His shirt barely reached the top of his shorts, and it would have been impossible for him to have a gun or a knife tucked into his beltline without her noticing.
That was one of three obstacles out of the way. The other two were getting his permission to record their conversation and advising him of his right not to speak to law enforcement. Ballard was confident in her ability to get the first done. The rights requirement was a different story. Nothing ended the cooperation of someone who was straddling the line between witness and suspect like being told that his words could be used against him in a court of law.
The Triple George Grill was not very new but it was designed to look like it was as old as the Tadich Grill in San Francisco and Musso and Frank’s in Hollywood. It was all dark wood and light tile with a long bar running down the middle of the room and private booths with floor-to-ceiling dividers and curtains to ensure the visual and audio privacy of conversations. The grill was located near a former courthouse and was originally meant to accommodate lawyers and their clients during lunch breaks. But that courthouse was closed now; it had been turned into the Mob Museum, dedicated to the history of organized crime — specifically its part in the establishment and rise of Sin City — and law enforcement’s attempts to fight it.
They slid into one of the private booths, Ballard and Maddie sitting across from Van Ness. A waitress came and Ballard ordered coffee to start; Maddie asked for ice water, and Van Ness went for a Bloody Mary.
Ballard began casually.
“Van Ness,” she said. “There’s a Van Ness Avenue in L.A. — is that your family?”
“I wish,” Van Ness said. “You’d think I’d be running security at a strip club if it was?”
“But you grew up in Pasadena and went to St. Vincent’s, right? That sounds like old-school privilege.”
“My mother was a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic. I had to go, but technically I was from the wrong side of the tracks. South Pas. Those arroyo kids had all the privilege, not me.”
“You never did any of those genetic-heritage sites — Twenty-Three and Me, that sort of thing — to see if maybe...”
“Nah, not interested. So what’s this all about and how do you know I went to St. Vincent’s?”
“We’re looking for a classmate of yours. But before we start, is it all right if we record this?” Ballard reached into her pocket for her mini-recorder.
“If I’m not a suspect, like you say, why do you need to record it?” Van Ness protested.
“Good question,” Ballard said. “New rules. The LAPD has been burned so many times by witnesses recanting what they said, we have a rule now where we have to record every interview. It also helps when we’re writing reports to have the recorded version to refer to.”
She held up the recorder. Van Ness stared at it but said nothing.
“So, okay?” she asked. “I’ll send you a copy so you have it.”
“Whatever,” Van Ness said. “Go ahead.”
Ballard turned on the recorder and checked its small screen to make sure it was working and had enough battery.
“Okay, we’re recording,” Ballard said. “The time is twelve fourteen p.m. on Wednesday, February twenty-first. This is a conversation between Rodney Van Ness, Officer Madeline Bosch, and myself, Detective Renée Ballard. Now, rule two, we need to advise you of your constitutional rights to—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Van Ness said. “You say I’m no suspect but now you’re telling me about my rights? That’s not cool. I’m out of here.”
Ballard, who had the outside spot on her side of the booth, reached across the table and put her hand on Van Ness’s arm as he was trying to slide out.
“No, would you please wait a minute,” she said. “These are the rules we have to play by in the LAPD. Every interview recorded, every witness read their rights. That way everybody is protected. I know it’s a pain, but it’s just... bureaucracy, okay? I can assure you that you are not a suspect in any crime — and I’m saying that on tape.”
She pointed at the recorder on the table.
“So now it’s even recorded — you are not a suspect,” she said. “But we need to talk to you because you can help us. Please let’s just get through this so you can go home and we can get back to L.A.”
Van Ness stopped pushing his way out of the booth. He sat back and shook his head as if he was thinking about it. Just then the waitress parted the booth’s curtain and placed a Bloody Mary with a tall sprig of celery and a straw in front of him.
Van Ness looked at the drink and then at Ballard.
“So I can end the interview anytime I want?” he asked.
“Anytime,” Ballard said.
“Well, I don’t like this. Seems kind of sneaky, if you ask me. But go ahead. Let’s get this over with.”
“Officer Bosch, do you want to do the honors?”
Maddie recited the Miranda warning and Van Ness responded that he understood his rights. Ballard was pleased that they had succeeded in getting through the pre-interview gauntlet.
“Okay, then, let’s start,” she said. “We are in the middle of an active investigation that is confidential in nature. So we can’t share specifics, but we want to ask you about some people you associated with at St. Vincent’s.”