Ballard handed him the bag and then followed him to a workstation. He put on gloves, removed the casing, and studied it under a lighted magnifying glass. He turned it in his fingers, studying the rim for marks left by the weapon that had fired it.
“Good extractor marking,” he finally said. “I think you’re looking for a Walther … but we’ll see. This will take a little time for me to encode. If you want to go get breakfast, I’ll be here when you get back.”
“No, I’m good,” Ballard said. “I have to make a call.”
“Then maybe we can get breakfast after we’re done.”
“Uh … I think I’ll probably need to keep moving with the case. But thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’m going to find an empty desk.”
She walked away, almost shaking her head. She was annoyed with herself for adding the thanks at the end of the rejection.
She found a workspace that was completely bare except for a phone on the desk. She pulled her own phone and called Robinson-Reynolds, clearly waking him up.
“Ballard, what is it?”
He seemed annoyed.
“You told me to update you no matter the time.”
“I did. Whaddaya got?”
“I think our shooting was a homicide — a murder — and I want to stick with it.”
“Ballard, you know it needs to go to — ”
“I know the protocol but West Bureau is running with a big media case and I think they would welcome me taking it off their hands — at least until they come up for air on the double they’ve got.”
“You’re not a homicide detective.”
“I know, but I was. I can handle this, L-T. We’ve already conducted witness interviews and I’ve been to Forensics and now I’m at Firearms running NIBIN on the shell we found.”
“You shouldn’t have done any of that. You should have turned it over as soon as you knew it wasn’t an accidental.”
“West Bureau was busy; I ran with it. We can turn it over now but they won’t jump on it, and hours and maybe days will go by before they do.”
“It’s not my call, Ballard. It’s their call. Lieutenant Fuentes over there.”
“Can you call him and grease this for me, L-T? He’ll probably be happy we want to take it off his hands.”
“There is no ‘we’ on this, Ballard. Besides, you are supposed to be off duty starting ten minutes ago. I got no overtime for you.”
“I’m not doing this for OT. No greenies on this.”
“Greenies” was a reference to the color of the 3 x 5 cards that had to be filled out and signed by a supervisor authorizing overtime work.
“No greenies?” Robinson-Reynolds asked.
“Nope,” Ballard promised.
“What about the Midnight Men, and where is Moore in all of this? You’re supposed to be working together.”
“She stayed at the station to start putting together the murder book and writing up witness statements. Nothing came up on the Midnight Men but I’ll still be working that. I’m not dropping it.”
“Then that’s a lot on your plate.”
“I wouldn’t ask for this if I couldn’t handle my plate.”
There was a pause before Robinson-Reynolds made a decision.
“Okay, I’ll make the call to Fuentes. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, L-T.”
The lieutenant disconnected first and Ballard walked back over to Elder’s workstation. He was gone. She looked around and saw him sitting at a computer terminal by the window that looked out on the 10 freeway. It meant he was on the NIBIN database. She walked over.
“Ballard, you’ve got something here,” Elder said.
“Really?” Ballard said. “What?”
“Another case. The bullet is linked to another murder. Almost ten years ago up in the Valley. A guy got shot in a robbery. The shells match. Same gun was used. A Walther P-twenty-two.”
“Wow.”
Ballard felt a cold finger go down her spine.
“What’s the case number?” she asked.
Elder dictated a number off the computer screen. Ballard grabbed a pen out of a cup next to the computer terminal and wrote the number in her notebook.
“What’s the vic’s name?” she asked.
“Lee, Albert, DOD two-two-eleven.”
She wrote it all down.
“It’s an open case?” she asked.
“Open-unsolved,” Elder said. “An RHD case.”
Robbery-Homicide Division, Ballard’s old unit before she was unceremoniously shipped out to work the late show in Hollywood. But 2011 was before her time there.
“Does it say who the I/O is?” she asked.
“It does but it’s out of date,” Elder said. “Says here the investigating officer is Harry Bosch. But I knew him and he’s been retired awhile.”
Ballard froze for just a moment before managing to speak.
“I know,” she then said.
8
Ballard pulled to a stop in front of the house on Woodrow Wilson. She yawned and realized that going home first had probably been a mistake. Changing out of the stiff uniform was a good thing, but then dozing on the couch for an hour had somehow only served to underline her exhaustion, not knock it down.
She could hear music coming from the house as soon as she opened the car door. Something high velocity but more bluesy than she was used to hearing from Harry Bosch. And there were vocals. It made her think that maybe someone else was inside listening.
She knocked loudly on the door to be heard over the music. It was immediately cut off and then the door opened. It was Bosch.
“Well,” he said. “The prodigal detective.”
“What?” Ballard said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I just haven’t heard from you in a long time. Thought you forgot about me.”
“Hey, you were the one who went off to the dark side, working for that defense lawyer. I thought there was no time for me.”
“Really?”
“Really. So, you get the vaccine yet? How do you feel about having visitors inside? I’ve got antibodies and can keep my mask on.”
Bosch stepped back for her to enter.
“You can come in and you can lose the mask. I haven’t got the vax yet but I’ll risk it. And for the record, I didn’t work for Mickey Haller. I work for myself.”
Ballard crossed the threshold, ignoring the comment about Haller and keeping her mask on.
“It sounded like you were having a party in here.”
“I mighta had the volume up a bit.”
The house was unchanged. The galley kitchen was to the right of the entry area and she stepped forward toward the view, passing by the dining area into the living room. The sliders were open to the deck and the view of the Cahuenga Pass. She pointed to the open doors.
“Letting everybody in the canyon hear your beats,” she said. “Nice.”
“Is that what this is?” Bosch asked. “A noise complaint?”
She turned and looked at him.
“Actually, it’s a complaint but about something else.”
“Great way to start off the new year — with the LAPD mad at me. Might as well hit me with it.”
“Not the LAPD. So far. Just me. This morning I drove all the way out to Westchester to the new homicide library they opened out there. You know, where they keep all the murder books from open cases. They finally put them all in one central place. And I asked for a book from one of your old cases and they told me it was gone, last checked out by you.”
Bosch frowned and shook his head.
“I read about that place in the paper,” he said. “Sponsored by the Ahmanson family. But the grand opening was long after I was out the door at LAPD. I’ve never set foot in that place, let alone checked out a book.”
Ballard nodded like she anticipated his response, and had an answer.
“They moved the archives from the divisions over one at a time,” she said. “If a book was checked out, they moved the checkout card over so there would be a space on the shelf at Ahmanson. The card on your case was from 2014 — three years after the murder and before you pulled the pin.”
Bosch didn’t respond at first, like he was checking facts in his head.
“The case was 2011?” he finally asked. “What was the name?”
“Albert Lee. Killed with a Walther P-twenty-two. You recovered the casing, apparently. But that’s about all I know, because you took the damn murder book. I need it back, Harry.”