“That’s fine. How do you want to do this?”
“There’s a lot of stuff in the room. I think we start there. The truck is empty except for the box he was loading when we took him down. It’s a flat-screen, and it’s broken.”
“Then let’s do it.”
“I called the watch commander and somebody’s going to bring over the surveillance van we’ve got at the station. Hopefully we can fit all of this stuff in.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
They worked through the rest of the night, taking an inventory of room 18 and loading the boxes and other property into the van. They had an easy rapport from working together previously. Along the way, they found a cache of credit cards with eight different names on them, including the card taken from Leslie Anne Lantana’s purse. They also found two other firearms, which had been stashed under the room’s mattress.
Once back at the station, Ballard was able to connect five of the other names from the credit cards to burglaries reported in Hollywood Division in the prior seven days. Meantime, Compton borrowed a desk and computer and started a trace of the three guns with the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. None of the firearms had shown up on the burglary reports Ballard had found but Compton learned that the Glock—the weapon Nettles had in his belt line—had been reported stolen in Texas two years before. Details of the theft were not available on the computer. Compton then made a request for further information from the ATF but both he and Ballard knew that the return on that would be measured in days if not weeks.
By six a.m., all the merchandise recovered from the motel room had been placed in a storage trailer outside the back door of the station, the pickup truck had been impounded and towed, and an inventory and full report on the Nettles arrest had been placed on the desk of the burglary unit supervisor. Although he would not return to work until Monday morning, there was no hurry, because Nettles was going nowhere. Compton had formally placed a no-bail hold on him.
The three recovered pistols were the last items to be taken care of. All firearms were stored in gun boxes before being placed in lockers for firearms in the property unit office. Ballard left Compton in the detective bureau and took the weapons back. Her banging the door of the gun locker drew the attention of Lieutenant Munroe, who came down the hallway and stuck his head into the property room.
“Ballard, nice work tonight.”
“Thanks, L-T.”
“How many you think he’s good for?”
“I have eight different names on credit cards that connect to six cases so far. My guess is they’re all going to be victims.”
“And the guns?”
“One was reported stolen out of Dallas two years ago. We’ve asked ATF for the details. We’ll hopefully know more next week.”
“A one-man crime wave, huh? Sweet bust. The captain will like it.”
“The captain doesn’t like me, so it doesn’t matter.”
“He likes anybody who clears cases and gets dirtbags off the street. Funny thing is, this guy Nettles said no on the withdrawal room.”
Munroe was telling her that Nettles had denied being a drug addict and turned down a padded jail cell for detainees who were going through withdrawal. This was unusual. Most burglaries were motivated by the need for money to buy drugs and feed addictions. Nettles might be different. Ballard had seen no physical indications of drug addiction in the short time she was handling him during the arrest.
“He was building a bankroll for something,” she said. “He had twenty-six hundred in cash in his pocket. I found another thousand in the truck along with a bunch of pawn slips. He was stealing the plastic, ordering stuff online before the accounts were shut down, and then pawning it for cash.”
“Which pawn shop?”
“A few different ones. He spread it out to fly under the radar. The mystery is that there was no laptop in the room or the truck.”
“He must’ve been going to office centers and using rental computers.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he had a partner. Burglary can figure that out Monday.”
Munroe nodded, and there was an awkward pause. Ballard knew he had something else to say and she had a good idea what it was.
“So,” she said. “Did Smitty beef me?”
“He said something about tactics, yeah,” Munroe said. “But I’m not worried about him. On my watch, if you get results, you get a pass.”
“Thanks, L-T.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not worried about you, though.”
“Look, Lieutenant, it was the best way to take the guy down. Even now, if I had it to do again, I would do the exact same thing—draw him out of the room. Only I’d put on a vest and a raid jacket just so Smitty wouldn’t get so fucking confused.”
“Take it easy, Ballard. Sometimes you’re like a feral fucking cat. Smitty wasn’t confused, okay? He just wanted his boot to know how it should be done.”
“Whatever. You said you weren’t writing me up.”
“And I’m not. I told Smitty I’d talk to you, and I have. That’s it. Learn from it, Ballard.”
She paused before responding. She could tell he wanted some kind of acknowledgment from her in order to put this to rest, but it was hard for her to give it up when she knew she wasn’t wrong.
“Okay, I will,” she finally said.
“Good,” Munroe said.
He disappeared back into the watch office and Ballard headed back to the detective bureau. Her shift was over and she regretted that she had been pulled away from the Ramona Ramone case for most of the night. She felt fatigue weighing in her bones and knew she needed sleep before thinking about next steps regarding Thomas Trent.
When she got to the bureau, Compton was still there waiting for her.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Where?” he said.
“Your place.”
16
Ballard was deep in a blue dream. Her father’s long hair and reckless beard were floating free all around his head. His eyes were open. The water felt warm. A bubble formed in his mouth and then rose toward the murky light far above them.
She opened her eyes.
Compton was sitting on the side of the bed with his hand on her shoulder. He was gently rocking her awake. His hair was wet from the shower and he was fully dressed.
“Renée, I gotta go,” he said.
“What?” she said. “What time is it?”
She tried to shake off the dream and the grip of sleep.
“It’s twenty to eleven,” Compton said. “You’re okay to stay and sleep. I just wanted to tell you I was leaving. I gotta pick up my boys.”
“Okay,” she said.
She turned onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. She was trying to get her bearings. She rubbed her eyes with both hands. She remembered they had come home in his car. Her van was still at the station.
“What were you dreaming about?” Compton asked.
“Why, was I talking?” she asked.
“No, you were just … it looked really intense.”
“I think I was dreaming about my father.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s dead. He drowned.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”