“Fine.”
Carpenter took the spot on the couch where Ballard had last seen her the day before. Renée sat in a stuffed chair across a low-level coffee table.
“He called you?” Ballard prompted.
“Yes, he called me,” Carpenter said. “He asked what happened and I ended up telling him.”
“And was he sympathetic to you?”
“He acted like he was, but he always made it sound like he cared about me. That was the problem — it was always an act with him. But …”
“But what?”
“This is why I’m pissed off about you calling him. He now has this to hold over me.”
Ballard waited for her to say more but she didn’t.
“I don’t understand, Cindy. What is he holding over you?”
“I left him, okay? I was the one who wanted out.”
“Okay.”
“And he told me, he said I would regret it. And now, thanks to you, he knows what happened to me and, like I said, he pretended to be sympathetic, but I could tell he wasn’t. He was saying I told you so without saying it.”
Carpenter turned her face and looked out the window toward the street. Ballard was silent while she thought about the story of the Carpenter marriage. Finally, she landed on a question.
“Cindy, do you remember, when he asked you what happened, did you get any sense that he already knew?”
“Of course he did. You told him.”
“I didn’t tell him you were sexually assaulted. I said it was a break-in. Did he already know you were attacked?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try to remember, what exactly did he say?”
“He said, ‘I heard that some guys broke in and are you all right.’ Things like that.”
Ballard paused for a moment. She wanted to get the next question right.
“Cindy, think back to that call. Did he say ‘some guys’ broke in? He used the plural?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember. I might have told him it was two guys, because I told him what happened. The point is, he now knows and I really wish he didn’t.”
Ballard knew that she had not mentioned that there were multiple suspects when she talked to Reginald on the phone. But now Cindy Carpenter couldn’t reliably remember who brought that fact into their conversation. It further advanced Ballard’s suspicions, because Cindy’s recounting of the conversation revealed more about their marriage. Her description of her ex-husband made him sound petty, selfish, and vengeful.
Again, though, she had to ask herself why she kept coming back to Reginald. He presumably had an alibi. And there was no known connection between Cindy or Reginald Carpenter and the other two victims of the Midnight Men.
“Did Reginald happen to say where he was on New Year’s?” she asked.
“He said he’d just gotten back from a golf trip in the desert when you called him,” Carpenter said. “He didn’t say exactly where that was and I didn’t ask. It was the last thing I cared about. Why are you asking that?”
“He just seemed preoccupied when I called him.”
“Please stop calling him.”
“I already have.”
Palm Springs qualified as the desert. As much as Ballard disliked Reginald Carpenter, it seemed unlikely that he was involved in the Midnight Men attacks. She decided to put the ex-husband aside and continue her hunt for a nexus between the three victims.
“How much of the questionnaire did you get through?” she asked.
“I’m almost finished,” Carpenter said. “It’s right here.”
She pulled a folded sheaf of papers off the side table and tried to fling it across the coffee table to Ballard. She missed badly and it ended up on the other end of the couch.
“Oops, sorry,” Carpenter said.
Ballard got up and picked up the papers.
“The calendar in there goes back sixty days,” Carpenter said. “I can barely remember where I was a week ago. So it’s definitely incomplete. But I got the rest of it done.”
“Thank you,” Ballard said. “I know this was a headache for you to do right now, but it is really valuable to the investigation.”
She flipped through the pages and read some of the answers Carpenter had provided in the calendar section. These included restaurants and shopping destinations. The week before Christmas and the day itself were marked with “La Jolla.”
“La Jolla?” Ballard asked.
“My parents live down there,” Carpenter said. “I always go down at Christmas.”
Ballard finished scanning.
“You went the whole month without putting gas in your car?” she asked. “What about gassing up to go down to La Jolla?”
“I didn’t know you wanted that kind of stuff,” Carpenter said.
“We want everything, Cindy. Anything you can remember.”
“I get gas at the Shell at Franklin and Gower. It’s on my way to work.”
“See, that’s exactly what we want. The locations of your routines. When did you last get gas?”
“On my way back from my parents’ the day after Christmas. Somewhere in Orange County off the five.”
“Okay, we don’t care about that, I don’t think, since it’s a one-off. What about disputes? Anybody at work or elsewhere?”
“Not really. I mean, customers complain all the time — we just give them another coffee and that’s it.”
“So nothing’s ever gotten out of hand? Especially recently?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“You have down here Massage Envy — is that the one on Hillhurst?”
“Yes, my employees gave me a gift certificate for Christmas and I used it one day when I got off work early. Nothing happened.”
“Male or female masseuse?”
“Female.”
“All right. I will probably have more questions after I look through this.”
What she did not say was that she might have questions after she cross-referenced Carpenter’s answers with those from the other two victims.
“So, did you find out anything about the streetlighting guys?” Cindy asked.
“No, not yet,” Ballard said.
“Do you think it was them?”
“It could have been. The questionnaire is important because we need to find out where your attackers crossed paths with you. We want to try to understand who would target you, and why.”
Carpenter slapped her hand down on her thigh like she was fed up.
“Why is it my fault?” she said angrily. “Why is it because of something I did?”
“I’m not saying that,” Ballard said quickly. “I’m not saying that at all.”
Ballard felt her phone buzz. She checked the screen and saw that it was the inside line at Hollywood Station. It was the watch commander and she realized she had left the rover in the charging dock in her city car. She put the phone away without answering the call.
“Well, it sure seems like it,” Carpenter said.
“Then I’m sorry,” Ballard said. “So let me make it clear: You did nothing to deserve or attract this. What happened to you was not your fault in any way. We’re talking about the attackers here. I’m trying to learn where and under what circumstances these sick, twisted individuals decided to choose you. That’s all, and I don’t want you thinking that I’m looking at it any other way.”
Carpenter had her face turned away again. She murmured a response.
“Okay,” she said.
“I know that sometimes the investigation is just an ongoing reminder of what you were put through,” said Ballard. “But it’s a necessary evil, because we want to catch these assholes and put them away.”
“I know. And I’m sorry I’m being a bitch.”
“You’re not, Cindy. And you have nothing to be sorry about. At all.”
Ballard stood up and folded the Lambkin questionnaire in half.
“You’re going?” Carpenter asked.
After turning her face from her and repeatedly pushing back at her questions, Carpenter now seemed upset that Ballard was leaving.
“It looks like I have another call,” Ballard said. “I need to go. But I can check in later if you want me to.”
“Okay.”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
“No, I’m off.”