“Wait — is this about the Midnight Men? It’s in the same general area of at least two of the attacks.”
“Mr. Welborne, I need you to stop asking me questions. I just want to assure you that your friend is not in danger and we will take all safeguards possible to keep it that way.”
Ballard tried to change the subject.
“Now, do you know where the streetlight is in relation to her home? How close is it?”
“From what I understand, it is right in front of her house. That’s why she noticed it was on one night, out the next.”
“Okay, and can you give me a phone number for Hannah Stovall?”
“Not offhand, but I can get it. Can I call you back at this number in a few minutes? I just need to call my wife.”
“Yes, I’m at this line. But Mr. Welborne, please don’t tell your wife what this is about, and please don’t you or your wife call Hannah about this. I need to keep her line clear so I can call her myself.”
“Of course, I’ll just tell her that the number’s needed for the streetlight maintenance order.”
“Thank you.”
“Stand by, Detective. I’ll get right back to you.”
40
Ballard held off on calling Hannah Stovall until she had a plan that she could confidently share with her. Strategizing the moves she would make, she drove the rest of the way into the city in silence, with the exception of a short call to Harry Bosch. She knew if there was no one else to back her play, there would always be Bosch. She asked him to stand by without telling him what he would be standing by for, and he didn’t object. He simply said he would be ready and waiting for anything, that he had her back.
She got into Hollywood shortly after 1 p.m., took Melrose to North Citrus Avenue, and turned south to cruise by the streetlight in front of the address Carl Schaeffer had given. She did not slow as she passed. She just surveyed and kept moving. Citrus was on the outer edges of what could be considered Hancock Park. It was on the west side of Highland, and the houses here were smaller postwar family homes with single-car garages. Slowly the neighborhood was being infiltrated by redevelopment, which came in the form of two-story cubes being built to the limits of the lot and then walled and gated. Next to the single-level Spanish-style homes that originally populated the neighborhood, the redevelopment looked sterile, soulless.
As she drove, Ballard checked the vehicles parked curbside for any signs of surveillance but saw nothing that indicated that the Midnight Men might be watching their next victim. At Beverly, she turned right, made a U-turn when she could, and then came back to Citrus. She headed back up the street the way she had come. This time when she passed the streetlight in question, she glanced at the plate at the bottom of the post to check for any sign of tampering. She saw nothing, but she had not expected to.
Back on Melrose she turned right and immediately parked at the curb in front of Osteria Mozza. The popular restaurant was closed due to Covid, and parking at the moment was plentiful. She pulled up her mask, got out, and opened the hatch. She got Pinto out of his crate and snapped on his leash. She then walked the dog back toward Citrus, taking a return call from John Welborne while on the way. He supplied Hannah Stovall’s phone number and the additional intel that she was most likely home at the moment because she was working from home during the pandemic.
Ballard turned south on Citrus and started down the street on the west side — which would take her by the streetlight. She took it slow, allowing the dog to set the pace while sniffing and marking his way down the street. The only tell she might have given — if the Midnight Men were watching — was to pull Pinto away from the streetlight in question so that he would not mark it and possibly destroy evidence.
Ballard surreptitiously checked the house where Hannah Stovall lived. There was no car in the driveway, and the garage was closed. Ballard noted that it was an attached garage that surely had internal access to the house, just as with the home of Cindy Carpenter.
Ballard kept walking and at Oakwood crossed Citrus and turned back north, walking the other side of the street like a pet owner wanting to give her dog new lawns to sniff and mark.
She checked the dashboard clock after she got back to the Defender. It was two-thirty and possibly a little early to start her plan. She also had Pinto to consider.
There was an overnight dog kennel on Santa Monica Boulevard near the Hollywood Station. She had used it on occasion for Lola and knew it to be clean and welcoming and not too crowded. Best of all, she would be able to use her phone to access the camera in the so-called playroom to check on Pinto.
It took an hour to get to Dog House, start a new account, and put Pinto up for the night. Ballard’s heart hurt as she realized the dog might think he was being rejected and turned back in to a shelter. She hugged him and promised to come back the next day, assuring herself more than the dog.
Her parking place in front of Mozza had gone unclaimed and she pulled back in shortly before four, adjusting her mirrors so she could pick up any vehicles coming out of North Citrus Avenue behind her. She then made the initial call to Hannah Stovall and the strategy she had formulated kicked into gear.
Her call was picked up right away.
“Hello, I’m looking for Hannah Stovall.”
“That’s me. Who’s this?”
“I’m calling about the report of a streetlight that is out on your street?”
“Oh, yes. Right in front of my house.”
“And how long would you estimate that it has been out?”
“Just since yesterday. I know it was working Saturday because it shines over the top of my shades in my bedroom. It’s like a night-light for me. I noticed it was gone last night and I emailed Martha Welborne this morning. This seems to be a lot of attention for one little streetlight. What’s going on?”
“My name is Renée Ballard. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. I don’t want to scare you, Ms. Stovall, but I believe someone may be planning to break into your home.”
Ballard knew no gentler way to put it, but as she expected, Stovall reacted with extreme alarm.
“Oh my god — who?”
“I don’t know that but — ”
“Then how do you know? You just call people up and scare the shit out of them? This doesn’t make sense. How do I know you’re even a cop? A detective or whatever you say you are.”
Ballard had anticipated having to prove who she was to this woman.
“Is this number a cell phone?” she asked.
“Yes,” Stovall said. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Because I’m going to hang up and text you photos of my police ID and my badge. Then I’ll call you back and explain what’s going on in fuller detail. Okay, Ms. Stovall?”
“Yes, send the text. Whatever this is, I want it to be over.”
“So do I, Ms. Stovall. I’m disconnecting now and will call you back.”
Ballard ended the call, pulled up photos of her badge and police ID, and texted them to Stovall. She waited a few minutes for them to land and be viewed, then called back.
“Hello.”
“Hannah — can I call you Hannah?”
“Sure, fine, just tell me what’s going on.”
“Okay, but I’m not going to sugarcoat this, because I need your help. There are two men out there targeting women in the Hollywood area. They invade their homes in the middle of the night and assault them. We believe they knock out the streetlights near the victim’s home a night or two before the attack.”
There was a long silence only punctuated by the repeated intake of breath.
“Hannah, are you all right?”
Nothing.
“Hannah?”
Finally she came back with words.
“Are they the Midnight Men?”
“Yes, Hannah.”
“Then why aren’t you here right now? Why am I alone?”
“Because they might be watching you. If we make a show, we lose the chance to capture them and end this.”