“So, I think you have a slight concussion. We’ve got a little bit of dilation of the pupils, some elevated blood pressure.”
He used his gloved fingers to press the skin around Ballard’s eyes. She could see the concentration in his expression as he worked. He wore a mask but he had sharp brown eyes and full brown hair and was maybe a few years younger than her. One of his pupils had a notch in it slightly off center at five o’clock.
“Coloboma,” Single said.
“What?” Ballard asked.
“You’re looking at my eye. The notch in my pupil is caused by a birth defect in the iris called coloboma. Some call it a keyhole pupil.”
“Oh. Does it …”
“Affect my eyesight? No. But I have to wear sunglasses when the sun is out. So, most of the time.”
“Well, that’s good. About your eyesight.”
“Thanks. And so you’re on the other side of the wall, right?”
“What?”
“Hollywood Division?”
“Oh, yeah, Hollywood. You’re at the firehouse, then?”
“Yep. Maybe I’ll see you in the parking lot someday.”
“Sure.”
“But what I think you need to do now is punch out and go home and rest.”
“I can’t do that. I’m the only detective on duty tonight.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not going to be much of a detective if your brain swells and you go into seizure.”
“Seriously?”
“You took a good knock on the head. Coup and contrecoup injuries — bruising of the brain, swelling — can develop over time. I’m not saying you have that, because there is only mild dilation exhibited, but you definitely want to take it easy. You can sleep but you want somebody to wake you and check on you every couple hours or so. Just keep a watch on this. You have somebody at home who can check on you through the night?”
“I live alone.”
“Then give me a number, and I’ll call you every few hours.”
“You’re serious?”
“Totally. You don’t want to mess around with an injury like this. Call your supervisor and tell him you’re going home. If he wants to talk to me, I’ll tell him what I just told you.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it.”
“Give me a number to call.”
Ballard gave him a business card that had her name and cell phone number on it. She remained skeptical that he would call to check on her. But she hoped he would. She liked his look and his manner. She liked the keyhole in his eye.
“So, am I okay to drive?” she asked. “I have a city ride I should turn in and then get my car.”
“I can drive your ride back, since we’re going back to the station. Where do you live?”
“Los Feliz.”
“Well, maybe you can get an Uber or one of the patrol guys can drive you home.”
“Sure. I can work on that.”
“Good. And I’ll call to check on you in a couple hours.”
20
It seemed that every time Ballard dropped deeply into a dream, she was pulled out by the buzz of her cell phone, and it was EMT Single making good on his promise to check in on her. This cycle continued through the night into Sunday morning, when he finally said that it was safe for her to sleep uninterrupted.
“You mean now that the sun is up I can get a good night’s sleep?” she asked.
“I thought this would be your normal schedule,” Single said. “You do work the night shift, right?”
“I’m just giving you a hard time. Thank you for checking on me. It means a lot.”
“Anytime. Your next concussion, call me.”
She ended the call with a smile on her face despite the headache behind her eyes. She got up, wobbled as she got her footing, and went into the bathroom. After splashing cold water on her face, she looked closely at herself in the mirror. She saw bluish shadows under her eyes but the dilation of her pupils seemed to be back to normal, at least compared to what it had been when she got home the night before. She then thought of EMT Single’s keyhole pupil and smiled again.
It was 8 a.m. and she was still tired after the repeatedly interrupted sleep cycle. She stayed in her sweats and got back into bed, thinking she would doze for a little while longer. She knew there was a lot to do but she needed to be rested and ready for her next shift that night. She closed her eyes and soon all of that was forgotten.
In her dream, Ballard could breathe underwater. There was no need to charge to the surface for air. No burning in her lungs. She looked up through the blue to the sun, its rays penetrating the water with warmth and comfort. She twirled onto her back and moved languidly in the current, looking up and realizing that the sun was shaped like an acorn and was not the sun at all.
The phone’s buzz seemed to wake her as soon as she had shut her eyes, but as she reached for it, she saw the time was 3:50 and that she had been asleep for nearly eight hours. The call was from Bosch.
“Have you gotten my messages?”
“No. What? What happened? You called?”
“No, I texted. There’s a memorial service for Javier Raffa today.”
“Shit, when? Where?”
“It starts in ten minutes at St. Anne’s on Occidental.”
Ballard knew that wasn’t far from her. She put Bosch on speaker so she could scroll through her missed texts and emails. There were three from Bosch and one from her lieutenant. One of the emails that had come in was from Bobbi Klein, the first victim of the Midnight Men. The others were not important.
“I don’t know how I slept through all of — I got a concussion last night.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. Are you at the memorial?”
“I’m here but I didn’t go in. I think I’d stick out. I’ve got a good spot and I’m watching people arrive. I think Hoyle is here. At least there’s one white guy that I think is him.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. Thanks for the wake-up.”
“You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Ballard quickly dressed and headed down to the garage. Her car was there because she had disregarded EMT Single’s orders and driven herself home after checking out with the watch lieutenant the night before.
She took Hillhurst all the way to Beverly and then over to Occidental. She found a spot at the curb a half block away and called Bosch.
“I’m here. Are you still in place?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay, I’m going to go in. I’ll see if we can talk to the widow after.”
“Sounds good.”
“Anybody else of note arrive?”
“There’s a lot of obvious bangers, tattooed to the ears. You want me to go in with you?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Do you think it’s worth following Hoyle, if it was Hoyle you saw?”
“I don’t know. Where’s he going to go on a Sunday night? He’s probably just here for appearances. There might be suspicions if he didn’t show — you know what I mean?”
“Yeah. But wait till the widow Raffa finds out what’s going on.”
“You’re going to tell her in there?”
“No, I’ll wait. Okay, I’m going now.”
Ballard disconnected and exited her car. She walked up the street and followed a few stragglers arriving late. She hurried to follow them in and use them as cover. The memorial was in a chapel to the side of the main church. That made it too crowded to enter and Ballard stood in the hallway outside with the stragglers. There were speakers in the ceiling, so she heard the testimonials and tearful memories from friends and co-workers as well as a hymn sung by the crowd. The hymn and most of the testimonials were in Spanish. Ballard understood enough to know that many people were lamenting that Javier Raffa had left the violent life to raise a family and run a business, yet in the end, violence still found him and took it all away.
After forty-five minutes, the ceremony ended and the immediate family left the chapel first to form a receiving line outside the door. Ballard hung back and watched from one of the archways that lined the walkway that ran down the side of the church.