“Hi,” she said.
“Some crazy stuff here today,” he said. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine now.”
“I mean, I was told a guy broke in and tried to kill you.”
“He did. But it’s complicated and the police are investigating.”
“But you are the police.”
“Yes, but I’m not investigating this, so I can’t really talk about it.”
She started to move back toward the stairs.
“We aren’t used to this sort of thing here,” the neighbor said.
Ballard turned back.
“That’s a good thing, then,” she said. “Neither am I.”
“Well, I know you’re new,” the neighbor said. “And I hope that this sort of thing isn’t going to be normal. I feel as HOA president that I need to say that.”
“I’m sorry, what is your name again?”
“It’s Nate. We met in the — ”
“The garage, I remember. Well, Nate, I don’t consider it normal when somebody tries to kill me in my bed. But you should know that he was a stranger and that it was a break-in, and I was thinking that the next time you have a homeowners’ meeting, you might want to review the security around here. He got in here somehow, and I’d hate to see the HOA be held responsible for anything. That could be expensive.”
Nate blanched.
“Uh, totally,” he said. “I, uh, I’m going to call a special meeting to review building security.”
“Good,” Ballard said. “I’d like to hear how that goes.”
This time she turned and Nate had nothing further to say. She took the steps two at a time and found her front door had been left unlocked by the investigators. Typical LAPD incompetence. She locked it after entering and quickly moved through the apartment to her bedroom. The junk drawer she had pulled out of the bed table that afternoon during the struggle with Bonner was still on the floor. She could see fingerprint dust on its handle. Rooting through the drawer, she found the burner phone she had buried in the junk. She snapped it open and saw that it had either been powered off or its battery had died.
She fumbled with it, looking for the on/off button and found none. She held her thumb down on the 0 button but nothing happened. She then tried the 1, and the phone’s screen finally came to life. Once it was fully booted, she went to work checking for stored numbers and recent calls. There were none but the texting app had a single message, timed at 4:30 p.m. that day from an 818 area code. It was just one word: Report.
“Got you,” she whispered.
She stared at the phone for a few moments, considering her next move. She knew she had to be careful and conservative. If she answered the text wrong, the lead could disappear like cigarette smoke in the wind. If she used the phone in any way — to text or call — she could be tampering with evidence. She decided to wait and closed the phone. She went into the kitchen and put it in a Ziploc bag and sealed it. Pulling her own phone, she called Bosch.
“You up for a ride?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said. “When?”
“Now.”
“Come get me.”
“On my way. And, uh, I’ll need a gun. They’re processing mine and my backup’s in my locker.”
“Not a problem.”
Ballard liked how he answered without any question or hesitation.
“Okay, see you soon,” she said.
32
After pulling out of the garage, Ballard drove around the block and found a SID team working under portable lights on Hoover, a block behind her building. There was a flatbed from the OPG moving into position in front of a black Chrysler 300. A table had been set up under one of the crime scene lights, and Ballard recognized the face of the man with a clipboard, writing on what she assumed was an evidence log. She pulled to the curb, got out, and approached the lights.
“Reno,” she said.
Reno looked up and clearly remembered Ballard from the callout to Cindy Carpenter’s house.
“Detective Ballard,” he said. “You okay? Sounded like a close call for you.”
“It was,” Ballard said. “Did you work my apartment too?”
“I did.”
“Cool. And this is the dirtbag’s car?”
“Yeah, we’re going to take it to the print shed.”
“Where’d you find the key?”
“On the front left tire.”
Ballard looked down at the table. There were three brown paper evidence bags with red tape sealing them. One had a sticker that warned anyone handling it that the bag contained a firearm. She tried to hide her excitement and act as though she was already in the know.
She pointed at the bag.
“Is that the P-twenty-two?”
“Yup. Also found up in the wheel well. Not a good place to hide a weapon. We always look there first or second. And supposedly he used to be a cop — from what I hear.”
“What about ammo?”
“Just what was in the weapon.”
“Remington?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, well, have a good night.”
“You too.”
Ballard returned to her car. She was confident that the gun found in the wheel well of Bonner’s car had been used in the two homicides she had connected.
She headed off toward Bosch’s house, checking the time on the dashboard. She figured that she could pick up Bosch and get to Hoyle’s house by eleven. The late hour would work in her favor. Nobody likes a cop to knock on their door that late at night.
Her phone buzzed and she saw that it was Garrett Single calling.
“Hey, Garrett.”
“Renée, hi. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m so glad to hear it.”
“Thanks for your help. Sorry if it sounded like I was yelling at you.”
“Not at all. But, hey, I thought you should know, some detectives from SID were just here talking to me about it.”
“You mean FID?”
“Uh, I don’t know, maybe. You guys on the other side of the wall have too many acronyms. It’s alphabet soup over there.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Just that I helped you try to save the guy and then I FaceTimed it with you.”
Ballard realized that she had completely forgotten about FaceTiming Single so he could visually check the insertion point of the field trach in Bonner’s neck. After the stress and adrenaline flood of the life-and-death struggle had subsided, the moments had lost clarity and she had forgotten details. She hadn’t even mentioned the FaceTime call during her own FID interview. She found this lapse understandable — it was the reason she liked to interview a victim of violence multiple times over multiple days. Now she had experienced for herself the way details came back over time.
“Man, too bad you didn’t record that,” Ballard said.
“Uh, actually, I did,” Single said. “I have an app. I thought I should record it in case we needed to look at it again.”
“Did you tell them that?”
“Yeah, they wanted it.”
“You let them take your — Wait, you’re on your phone.”
“I just sent them the video. I wasn’t going to give up my phone.”
“Great, can you send it to me? I just want to look.”
“Sure. Is everything else okay? I mean, the guys that came here were asking a lot of questions about you.”
“As far as I know, everything’s good. It was clean. But I’m still working. I mean, I’m supposed to be riding a desk until the report comes out.”
“Then I should let you go.”
“Let’s talk tomorrow, okay? I think things will slow down then.”
“Sure. Be safe.”
“You too.”
Ballard disconnected. She was relieved to learn there was a video record of at least part of the event that was under investigation. She knew that whatever Single had captured would support the story she had told FID. More than that, she was happy that Single had called.
A smile played on her face in the darkness of the car as she drove.
33