After parking, they went up the front steps and into a grand hallway with large LAPD do-gooder photographs lining the walls. In a previous incarnation the center had been the corporate headquarters for an oil company. Ballard imagined the walls had then been lined with do-gooder oil-production photos.
The homicide library was on the first floor at the end of the grand hall. Its double doors were unmarked, the thinking likely being that it was not the best thing to advertise that the city had a whole library of murder books from unsolved cases.
There was a lone cadet behind the counter, sitting in a swivel chair and playing a game on his phone. He went on full alert when Ballard and Bosch entered, probably his only visitors of the day. He was the same kid who had been on duty the previous day when Ballard came in for the Albert Lee book. Still, she flipped her badge while Bosch put his printouts down on the counter and started spreading them out.
The recruit was in a training uniform with his name on a patch over the right breast pocket. It was attached by Velcro so it could be easily ripped off should the recruit wash out of the academy. His name was Farley.
“Ballard, Hollywood Division. I was here yesterday. We need to pull another book. This one from a 2013 case.”
She looked down at the printout Bosch was focused on. It was his copy of the chrono from the Albert Lee case, and he was running his finger down the page of 2013 entries. He found the one detailing his inquiries to Pacific Division Homicide about the John William James murder. He called out the case number and Farley dutifully wrote it down.
“Okay, let me go look,” he said.
He left the counter and disappeared into the warren of shelves lined with plastic binders, each one cataloging a life taken too soon and still with no justice in response.
Farley seemed to be taking a long time to locate the murder book. They were filed chronologically, so it seemed like it would be an easy errand to locate the 2013 shelves and find the John William James binder.
Ballard impatiently drummed her fingers on the counter.
“What the hell happened to him?” Bosch asked.
Ballard stopped drumming as some kind of realization came to her.
“It’s not there,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Bosch asked.
“I just realized. The Albert Lee book is gone, so why would they leave this one?”
“They? Who’s they?”
Before Ballard could come up with an answer, Farley returned from his errand without a murder book in his hands. Instead, he had a lined manila checkout card like the one Ballard had seen when she came for the Albert Lee book.
“It’s checked out,” Farley said.
“That makes me oh for two,” Ballard said. “Who checked it out?”
Farley read a name off the checkout card.
“Ted Larkin, Homicide Unit, Pacific Division. But it says he checked it out five years ago. That was before this place was even here. Like the other one you asked for.”
Ballard slapped a hand down on the counter. She could guess that it was probably checked out after Larkin had retired. Somebody had impersonated the lead detectives on the two cases to enter two different police stations and steal the murder books, leaving behind what would be viewed as plausible checkout cards.
“Let’s go,” Ballard said.
She turned from the counter and headed to the door. Bosch followed.
“Thanks, Farley,” she called over her shoulder.
Ballard marched down the wide hallway toward the main entrance, leaving Bosch struggling to keep up.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he called after her. “Where are you running? There’s nothing you — ”
“I want to get out of here,” Ballard said. “So we can talk outside.”
“Then we can only go as fast as I can go. So slow down.”
“Okay. I’m just fucking pissed off.”
Ballard slowed her pace and Bosch caught up.
“I mean, this is bullshit,” she said. “Somebody’s stealing murder books in our own damn department.”
The urgency of her voice caught the attention of two cadets walking by in the hall.
“Just wait,” Bosch said. “You said let’s talk outside.”
“Fine,” Ballard said.
She held her tongue until they were out the doors, down the steps, and heading across the parking lot to her car.
“They have somebody inside,” she said.
“Yeah, we know that.” Bosch said. “But who is ‘they’? The dentists? Or is there a go-between?”
“That’s the question,” Ballard replied.
They got in the Defender, and Ballard tore out of the parking lot like she was on a code 3 call. They drove in silence for a long time, until Ballard drove onto the entrance ramp of the 10 freeway.
“So, now what?” Bosch asked.
“We’re going to make one last stop,” Ballard said. “Then I need to go back to work on my other case. I told the victims I’d be calling.”
“That’s good. What stop are we making?”
“Dodger Stadium.”
“The academy? Why?”
“Not the academy. The stadium. I’m going to get you vaccinated, Harry. You’re eligible, and I get the feeling that if I don’t help you get it done, it will never happen.”
“Look, just take me home. I can get that done on my own time and not waste yours.”
“Nah, we’re going. Get it done now. Trust the science, Harry.” “I do. But there are a hell of a lot of people who deserve it ahead of me. Besides, you need an appointment.”
Ballard pulled the badge off her belt and held it up.
“Here’s your appointment,” she said.
18
After Ballard cleared roll call without being pulled into anything new she told the watch commander that she was going up to the Dell for a second interview with the latest victim of the Midnight Men. He told her to make sure she had a rover.
She could have handled Cindy Carpenter by phone, but face-to-face visits with victims were always better. Not only was it reassuring to them to see a detective in person, but there was a better chance of them sharing newly recalled details of the crime. The brain protects itself by switching to essential life support in a time of physical trauma. Only after safety returns do the full details of the trauma start to come back. Carpenter’s remembering having the sense that she was filmed or photographed was an example of this. Ballard was hoping that a continuation of the bond between detective and victim would emerge in this visit.
But Carpenter, still wearing her work polo with the Native Bean logo on it, answered the door with “What?”
“Hey, everything all right?” Ballard asked.
“Everything’s fine. Why do you keep coming back?”
“Well, you know why. And I was hoping you’d have the questionnaire finished for me.”
“I’m not done.”
She made a move to shut the door and Ballard put her hand out to stop it.
“Is something wrong, Cindy? Did something happen?”
Ballard quickly reset her goals for the visit. She now just wanted to get inside.
“Well, for one, you called my ex-husband and I asked you not to do that,” Carpenter said. “Now I have to deal with him.”
“You didn’t tell me not to call him,” Ballard said. “You told me you didn’t want to talk about him, but you also gave the responding officer his name and number as your closest contact. And it — ”
“I told you I don’t know why I did that. I was confused and terrified. I couldn’t think of anybody else.”
“I understand all of that, Cindy. I do. But I have an investigation going and I need to follow it wherever it takes me. You put your ex’s name down on the incident report, then you don’t want to talk about him. That raised a flag for me. So, yes, I called him. I didn’t tell him that you were attacked. In fact, I worked my way around it. I take it he called you. What did he say?”
Carpenter shook her head like she was annoyed with how smoothly Ballard was handling this confrontation.
“Can I come in?” Ballard asked.
“Might as well,” Carpenter said.
She stepped back from the door. Ballard entered and tried to further diffuse the situation.
“Cindy, I hope you understand that my sole purpose right now is to find the men who attacked you and put them away forever. No matter what moves I make on the investigation, none are intended to cause you further harm or upset. That’s the last thing I want to do. So, why don’t we sit down and start with what happened after I talked to Reginald.”