“Don’t worry. I will.”
6
At five P.M. Ballard was posted in her Defender in front of the PAB — the Police Administration Building — on First Street. She had a clear view up the slight incline of Spring Street at the exit gate from the garage beneath the Criminal Courts Building. Tom Laffont was in his personal car at the top of the incline at Spring and Temple. Paul Masser was positioned in one of the pink chairs in Grand Park next to the courthouse. This put him closest to the exit from the garage where the building’s judges parked. His angle would allow him to see the license plates on the vehicles leaving the garage. They were looking for a Mercedes C 30 °Coupe that belonged to Judge Jonathan Purcell. It was as black as a judge’s robe, according to Anders Persson, who’d gotten the registration from the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Lilia Aghzafi was posted in her car on Temple so she could swing around the corner and pick up Masser once Purcell’s car was spotted and surveillance ensued.
Ballard picked up her rover and pressed the send button. “Everybody got their eyes open?”
She received a mic click from each of the others. Satisfied, she picked up her cell phone and called a number she had written in her notebook. She put the phone on speaker so she wouldn’t have to take her eyes off the courthouse garage exit.
The call went immediately to voicemail.
“This message is for Seth Dawson,” Ballard said. “This is Detective Renée Ballard with the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m following up on the car burglary that occurred on the Pacific Coast Highway at Topanga in November. I have some questions I’d like to ask you. I can be reached anytime at this number. I would appreciate a call back.”
She disconnected and reviewed her words. Dawson would have a recording of her talking about an investigation that was not hers to conduct, which could be problematic should things blow up in her face. But the way she had worded the message gave her a plausible out, because she’d never said that she was conducting an investigation, only that she wanted to ask him questions.
The rover crackled with Masser’s voice.
“Black Mercedes coming up the ramp.”
Ballard grabbed the binoculars from the center console and trained them on the garage exit onto Spring. The black Mercedes soon appeared and held still as its driver waited to make the turn. It was a one-way street. The driver had to go right and come toward Ballard’s position.
Ballard grew impatient waiting for Masser to report. Without taking her eyes from the binocs, she grabbed the rover.
“Do we have the plate?”
She waited and then turned her focus slightly left to pick up Masser. She saw him walking out of the park and talking into his sleeve, but she was not hearing him on the rover.
“Is anyone getting audio from Paul?” she barked into the rover. “He’s talking but I can’t hear him.”
“No audio from Paul,” Laffont said.
“Can’t hear him,” Aghzafi reported.
Ballard had to think quickly. The Mercedes had turned onto Spring and was coming to the traffic signal at First Street. The fact that Masser had walked out of Grand Park and was out on the sidewalk indicated that the black Mercedes was the one they were looking for. She keyed the mic. “Lilia, go get Paul and let us know about the plate. Copy?”
“Copy.”
At First Street the Mercedes turned right and headed up to Broadway. Ballard pulled the Defender away from the curb and moved into the left lane. She had to make a U-turn, and the five o’clock traffic was thick with oncoming vehicles. She brought the rover back up to her mouth. “Tom, are you on the move?”
“No, waiting on orders.”
“Damn it, go. I’m stuck. He went north on First toward Broadway. Go.”
“On my way.”
Ballard saw an opening in the traffic and dropped the rover into the center console so she could use two hands to yank the wheel into a U-turn. She headed toward the intersection at Spring, looking a block ahead for the Mercedes. She saw it moving on Broadway. Her guess was that it was going to the 101 freeway entrance. From there, the freeway quickly reached an interchange where Purcell could go in any direction and be lost to them.
Ballard had to hit the brakes when the car in front of her stopped early on a yellow. She slapped the steering wheel. “You asshole!”
But then she saw Laffont’s white Ioniq make the turn and head toward Broadway. It was followed by Aghzafi’s Volvo. She grabbed the rover again. “Lilia, did Paul confirm the plate?” She waited.
“Yes, confirmed.”
Ballard nodded to herself.
“Okay. Tom, you have the target? I caught a light.”
“Affirmative. Locked on.”
The light turned green and Ballard waited for the car in front of her to get moving. Lilia’s voice came up on the rover.
“And we are right behind. Have target in sight,” she said.
“Okay, keep spacing,” Ballard said. “I think we’re heading to the freeway.”
She jockeyed the Defender around the slow mover in front of her and made the turn onto Broadway. Laffont began a play-by-play on the rover.
“Okay, we’re on the freeway roundabout. Turning north at the moment.”
Ballard cursed as she caught the light at Temple. She figured that the Mercedes was on the freeway merging lanes and quickly approaching the 110 interchange.
“Tom, which way are we going?” she radioed.
“One-ten north,” Laffont responded. “Looks like Pasadena.”
Not so fast, Ballard thought. The 110 north fed to both the Glendale and Golden State Freeways. At this point Purcell — if it was Purcell they were following — could be going anywhere. She keyed her mic.
“Has anybody been able to see the driver? Have we confirmed the target?” She waited.
Lilia must have given her rover to Masser because Ballard heard him say, “It’s him. I saw him when he had his window down to talk to the guard at the garage. Sorry about my handset.”
They had photos of Purcell from his son’s Facebook page and a profile Hatteras had found online. It had run in the Los Angeles Legal Journal when he was appointed presiding judge of the superior court. The profile gave some details about the judge but did not reveal where he lived. They had no photo or home address from his driver’s license because the DMV had a security block on these. This was a common practice with law enforcement officers and the judiciary. Even the car registration that they were able to access had a post office box for an address.
Ballard finally got on the freeway and started working her way ahead. Eventually, she saw Aghzafi’s Volvo. She was about to tell the others that she had caught up when her phone rang. It was Hatteras. “Colleen, what’s up?”
“How are you guys doing?”
“We’re in the middle of it. What do you need?”
“I just wanted you to know I started working on the DNA heritage pattern for Purcell.”
“Okay, what does that mean?”
“It’s a genetic family tree.”
“Okay... anything good yet?”
“I’m just starting.”
“Well, then, how about you let me know if you find something we can use as an investigative lead?”
“Of course. I will. Are you guys following the judge now? I can hear you’re in the car.”
“Yes, we are, and I really need to focus on this, Colleen. So if there isn’t anything else, I’m going to let you go.”
“Okay, good luck. Let me know how it goes.”
“Are you coming in tomorrow?”