Ballard was delayed in getting to Bosch’s house because she went by the station to check out one of the drug unit’s undercover cars, grab a rover, and dummy up a couple of prop files. After grabbing the keys to a Mustang labeled as a buy car with audio/video capture, she headed into the back lot to look for the vehicle. She encountered Lieutenant Rivera standing at the open trunk of his personal car. It looked like he was just coming in to work. Guessing that Sanderson and the FID team would not be throwing a wide net in their investigation of Bonner, Ballard decided to go at Rivera herself.
She walked directly to him as he was getting his gun out of lockbox.
“Ballard, thought you were off tonight,” he said.
“I am but I’m working a case for dayside,” she said. “I need to ask you something, L-T.”
“Shoot.”
“Last night I asked you about Christopher Bonner. You called him after that, didn’t you?”
Rivera bought time by making a show of holstering his weapon and then closing the trunk.
“Uh, I might have,” he said. “Why?”
Ballard guessed that Rivera had probably slept through the day and didn’t know what had happened.
“Because he broke into my apartment and tried to kill me today,” she said.
“What!” Rivera exclaimed.
“Somehow he knew I was onto him. So, thanks, L-T. I hope it wasn’t you who gave him my address.”
“Wait a minute, Ballard. I did no such thing. All I did was pass on that somebody asked about him — like anybody would with a friend. You didn’t tell me you were investigating him. You said his name came up in your case. That’s it and that’s all I told him. He broke in? Jesus, I had no — ”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah, and you should expect a visit from FID.”
Ballard walked away and left him there. It felt good to make the link, but she knew it didn’t fill in all the blanks. She also believed her throwing FID at Rivera would be an empty threat. She did not expect Sanderson to take his investigation much further than he had already.
It took her five minutes to find the UC car in the vast parking lot. She then had to gas it up at the department pump across the street from the station on Wilcox. Finally, she was off and headed toward the hills and Harry Bosch’s house.
It was another hour before she pulled to a stop in front of Dennis Hoyle’s home, with Bosch sitting next to her and fully briefed on her plan.
“Here we go,” Ballard said.
They got out and approached the house. There was a light on over the front door but most of the windows were dark. Ballard pushed a doorbell and knocked. She looked around for a home security camera but did not see one.
After another round of knocking and doorbell ringing, Hoyle finally answered. He was wearing gym pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt with the silhouette of a surfer on it. He held a cell phone in his hand.
“You two,” he said. “What the hell is this? It’s almost midnight.” There was a surprised look on his face but Ballard had no way of discerning whether it was surprised by the late night visit or the fact that Ballard was alive.
“We know it’s late, Dr. Hoyle,” Ballard said. “But we thought you wouldn’t want this to happen in the middle of the day with the neighbors watching.”
“What? You’re arresting me? For what? I was asleep!”
Working the late show, Ballard had more than once heard an incongruous protest about sleep being some sort of safeguard against arrest or police questioning. She reached behind her back and under her jacket to take the handcuffs off her belt. She then dropped her arm so Hoyle could see them in her hand. It was an old trick that would reinforce his assumption that he was about to be arrested.
“We need to talk to you,” Ballard said. “We can do it here or at Hollywood Station. Your choice.”
“Okay, here,” Hoyle said. “I want to talk here.”
He turned and looked back into his house.
“But my family is — ”
“Let’s talk in the car.”
He hesitated again.
“In the front seat,” Ballard said. “As long as we’re talking, we’re not going anywhere.”
As if to reassure him she hooked her cuffs back onto her belt.
“My partner will stay outside the car, okay?” she added. “Not much room in the back. So it will be just you and me talking. Very private.”
“I guess,” Hoyle said. “It still feels weird.”
“Then let’s go inside and we’ll try not to wake anybody up.”
“No, no, your car is fine. Just as long as we’re not going anywhere.”
“You can get out anytime you want.”
“Okay, then.”
Bosch led the procession down the stone walkway across the manicured lawn to the UC car.
“Is this your own car?”
“Yeah, so I apologize ahead of time. It’s kind of dirty inside.”
Bosch opened the passenger-side door for Hoyle, who got in. Bosch closed the door and looked at Ballard as she circled behind the car to the driver’s side. He nodded. The plan was a go.
“Stay toward the front,” she whispered.
She opened the driver’s door and got in. Through the windshield, she saw Bosch take a position leaning against the front fender on the passenger side.
“He looks really old to be a detective,” Hoyle said.
“He’s the oldest living detective in L.A.,” Ballard said. “But don’t tell him I said that. He’ll get mad.”
“No worries. I’m not saying anything. Why don’t you two have a detective car?”
“The one we were assigned, the heat doesn’t work. So we took mine. You cold? You must be cold.”
She put the key in the ignition and turned it to the accessory setting. The dashboard lights came on and she reached for the heat control.
“Let me know if you want more heat.”
“I’m fine. Let’s get this over with. I have an early start tomorrow.”
Ballard checked Bosch again through the windshield. He had his arms crossed and his head down, adopting the posture of a guy who was tired of these routine interviews. Hoyle turned and looked out the window at his front door, as though reminding himself that he had to get back through it before this was over. Ballard used the moment to lean forward and reach under the dashboard to turn on the car’s audio/video system. The car was equipped with three hidden cameras and microphones for recording undercover drug buys. It would now capture everything that was said or done in the car from that moment on, putting it all on a chip in a recorder located in the trunk.
“Okay, I have to start by giving you the standard rights warning,” she said. “The department requires it of every interview, even if someone is not a suspect, because of adverse court rulings that — ”
“Look, I don’t know,” Hoyle said. “You said you just wanted to talk, now you’re giving me my rights? That’s not — ”
“Okay, listen, I’m just going to give you the rights warning and ask if you understand them. At that point, you have a choice: talk to me, don’t talk to me, and we go from there.”
Hoyle shook his head and put his hand on the door handle. Ballard knew she was about to lose him.
She hit the button that lowered her window. She called to Bosch, who came around the car. She grabbed the rover from the center console and held it out to him.
“We may need a car for a custody transport,” she said. “Can you deal with that?”
“Got it,” Bosch said.
He reached for the radio.
“Wait, wait,” Hoyle said. “Jesus Christ, okay, read me my rights. I’ll talk, let’s just get this over with.”
Ballard withdrew the radio and Bosch nodded. It was going about how they thought it would.
She put the window up and turned to Hoyle. From memory she gave him the Miranda warning and he acknowledged that he understood his rights and was agreeing to talk to her.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
“Ask your questions,” Hoyle said.
“After you saw us at the memorial service yesterday, who did you call?”
“Call? I didn’t call anyone. I drove home.”
“I gave you my card. I need to know who you told about me.”