Five minutes later, after assuring Towson she would not put him in harm’s way, Ballard was putting on sunglasses as she was headed back to her van. At its door she pretended to fumble with her keys as she surreptitiously checked her surroundings.
She had spooked Towson and in doing so had spooked herself. It was time for her to follow her own advice and take all possible precautions.
19
Ballard needed to sleep but she kept pushing herself. After leaving Towson she drove back over the hill and down into West Hollywood. Her next stop was Matthew “Metro” Robison’s home. She had left three messages through the night for him and he had not returned the calls.
Robison’s DMV address led Ballard to an apartment complex on La Jolla south of Santa Monica. As she cruised by, she saw an obvious city-ride parked at the curb out front. She kept going and pulled over a half block away. Steadman had told Ballard that Chastain texted his wife about wrangling a witness. Identifying and finding that witness would be priority one, and since Chastain had documented a call from Robison as the last investigative move on his chrono, it looked like the shoe salesman was of high interest to the task force.
Ballard adjusted her side-view mirror so she could keep an eye on the city-ride. After twenty minutes, she saw two detectives leave Robison’s building and get in. She identified them as Corey Steadman and his partner, Jerry Rudolph. They did not have anyone with them, which meant either Robison had not been home or he was home and had answered questions to their satisfaction. Judging by the lack of response from Robison the night before, Ballard was thinking that the most likely scenario was that he had not been there.
Ballard waited until Steadman and Rudolph drove off before she got out of her car and walked back to the apartment building. There was no security gate. She got to Robison’s door and was surprised when her knock was answered. A small woman who looked like she was about nineteen peered out at her from behind a security chain. Ballard showed her badge.
“Are you Metro’s girlfriend?” she asked.
She was hoping her gender and seeming familiarity would get her further than the two white male detectives who had just been here.
“What about it?” the young woman said.
“Like those two men who were just here, I’m looking for him,” Ballard said. “But for different reasons.”
“What’s your reason?”
“I’m worried about him. He reached out to my partner on Friday. And now my partner’s dead. I don’t want Metro to get hurt.”
“You know Metro?”
“Not really. I was just trying to keep him and his friend Zander out of this as much as I could. Do you know where he is?”
The girl tightened her lips and Ballard saw her holding back tears.
“No,” she said in a strangled voice.
“When was the last time he was home?” Ballard asked.
“Friday. I had work, and when I got off at ten, he wasn’t here, and he didn’t answer his texts. He’s gone and I’ve been waiting.”
“Was he supposed to work at Kicks yesterday?”
“Yes, and he didn’t show. I went there and I talked to Zander and he said he never came in. They said he’s fired if he doesn’t show up today. I’m freaking out.”
“My name is Renée,” Ballard asked. “What’s yours?”
“Alicia,” the girl said.
“Did you tell all of this to those two detectives who were just here, Alicia?”
“No. They scared me. I just said he hasn’t been here. They came last night, too, and asked the same questions.”
“Okay, let’s go back to Friday. Metro called my partner at about five o’clock. Were you with him then?”
“No, I go in at four.”
“And where is that?”
“Starbucks on Santa Monica.”
“Where was Metro when you last saw him?”
“Here. He was off Friday and he was here when I left for work.”
“What was he doing?”
“Nothing. Just watching TV on the couch.”
She turned away from the door opening as if to check the couch in the room behind her. She then turned back to Ballard.
“What should I do?” she asked, a tone of desperation clearly in her voice.
“You’re in West Hollywood here,” Ballard said. “Have you reported him missing to the Sheriff’s Department?”
“No, not yet.”
“Then I think what you should do is report him missing. It’s been two nights and he hasn’t come home and he hasn’t reported for work. Call the West Hollywood substation and make the report.”
“They won’t do anything.”
“They will do what they can, Alicia. But if Metro is hiding because he’s scared, that will make it hard to find him.”
“But if he is hiding, why doesn’t he text me?”
Ballard had no answer for that and was afraid her face revealed her true theory about Metro’s fate.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe he will. Maybe he’s keeping his phone off because he’s afraid people can track him through it.”
That provided no comfort.
“I have to go,” Alicia said.
Slowly she closed the door. Ballard reached out her hand and stopped it.
“Let me give you a card,” she said. “If you hear from Metro, tell him the safest thing for him to do is call me. Tell him Detective Chastain and I used to be partners, and he trusted me.”
She pulled out a business card and passed it through the opening. Alicia took it without a word and then closed the door.
Ballard got back into the car and folded her arms on the steering wheel. She leaned her forehead down against them and closed her eyes. She was beyond tired but her mind couldn’t let go of the case. Matthew Robison had at first been a witness classified as DSS—didn’t see shit. And then at 5:10 p.m. Friday, he called Chastain. Within hours one would be dead and one would be missing. What had happened? What did Metro know?
Ballard startled as her phone rang. She pulled her head up and checked the screen. It was her grandmother.
“Tutu?”
“Hello, Renée.”
“Is everything okay, Tutu?”
“Everything is fine. But a man was here. He said he was police and he was looking for you. I thought you should know.”
“Sure. Did he tell you his name and show you a badge?”
She tried to keep the urgency and concern out of her voice. Her grandmother was eighty-two years old.
“He had a badge and he gave me a business card. He said you have to call him.”
“Okay, I will. Can you read me his name and give me the number?”
“Yes, it’s Rogers—with the s at the end—Carr, spelled with two r’s.”
“Rogers Carr. What about a number so I can call him?”
Ballard grabbed a pen out of the center console and wrote a 213 number on an old parking receipt. She didn’t recognize the name or number.
“Tutu, does it say under his name where he works? Like what unit?”
“Yes, it says Major Crimes Unit.”
Now Ballard understood what was happening.
“Perfect, Tutu. I’ll give him a call. Was he by himself when he came to the door?”
“Yeah, by himself. Are you coming up tonight?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so this week. I’m working a case, Tutu.”
“Renée, it’s your weekend.”
“I know, I know, but they’ve got me working. Maybe I’ll get an extra day next week if we wrap this up. Have you been out to check the break lately?”