“And this is why a guy who kills an entire family is on the top of your pile.”
“You got it.”
Ballard nodded as she digested Bosch’s view of what it took to either get hooked by a case or be able to put it at the end of the line.
“So,” she finally said. “On the Albert Lee case, who was the factor?”
“It was a doctor,” Bosch said. “A dentist, actually. His name was John William James. His offices were down in the Marina and I guess he made so much money capping teeth that he started factoring.”
“You said ‘was.’ His name ‘was’ John William James.”
“Yeah, that’s going to be a problem with your case. John William James is dead. A couple years after Albert Lee got murdered, James got himself whacked as well. He was sitting in his Mercedes in the parking lot outside his office when somebody put a twenty-two in his head too.”
“Shit.”
“There goes your lead, huh?”
“Maybe. But I’d still like to see if you can find the chrono on the case, and whatever else you’ve got.”
“Sure. It’s either in the carport closet or under the house.”
“Under?”
“Yeah, I built a storage room under there after I retired. It’s pretty nice. I even have a bench for when I go down and look through cases.”
“Which I’m sure you do often.”
Bosch didn’t respond, which she took as confirmation.
“By the way,” Ballard said. “How are you doing with everything … from the radiation case?”
She hesitated saying the word leukemia.
“I’m still kicking, obviously,” Bosch said. “I take my pills and that seems to keep it in check. It could come back but for now I’ve got no complaints.”
“Good to hear,” Ballard said. “So do you mind looking for that chrono now?”
“Sure, I’ll be right back. It might take me a few. You want me to put the music back on?”
“That’s okay, but I was going to ask, what was that you were playing when I pulled up? It had a groove.”
“ ‘Compared to What.’ Some people say it was the first jazz protest song: ‘Nobody gives us rhyme or reason. Have one doubt, they call it treason.’ ”
“Okay, put it back on. Who is it?”
Bosch got up and went to the stereo to hit the play button. Then he adjusted the volume down.
“Originally Eddie Harris and Les McCann, but this version is John Legend and The Roots.”
Ballard started to laugh. Bosch hit the button again.
“What?” he asked.
“You surprise me, Harry, that’s all,” Ballard said. “I didn’t think you listened to anything recorded this century.”
“That hurts, Ballard.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll be right back.”
9
Ballard was in the garage of her condominium complex, grabbing her kit bag out of the back, the printouts from Bosch under her arm, when a man approached her. She tensed as she scanned the garage and saw no one else around. Her gun was in the kit bag.
“Hello, neighbor,” the man said. “I just wanted to introduce myself. You’re twenty-three, right?”
She knew he meant her apartment number. She’d been in the building just a few months, and though there were only twenty-five units, she had not yet met all of her neighbors.
“Uh, yeah, hi,” she said. “Renée.”
They bumped elbows.
“I’m Nate in thirteen, right below you,” he said. “Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year to you,” Ballard said.
“My partner is Robert. He said he met you when you were moving stuff in.”
“Oh, right, yeah, I met Robert. He helped me get a table into the elevator.”
“And he said you’re a cop.”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I guess it’s not a great time to be a cop these days.”
“It has its moments. Not all good, not all bad.”
“Just so you know, I did join the Black Lives Matter protest. Don’t hold it against me.”
“I won’t. And I agree, Black lives matter.”
Ballard noticed he was carrying a helmet and wearing cycling gear, including the tight biking shorts with padding in the butt that look awkward whenever you’re off the bike. She wanted to change the subject without being rude to a neighbor.
“You ride?” she asked.
It was a dumb question but the best she could manage.
“Every chance I can,” Nate said. “But I sure see that you have a different hobby.”
He pointed to the boards Ballard had propped against the garage wall in front of her Defender. One was her paddleboard for flat days, the other her Rusty Mini Tanker for surfing the Sunset break. The rest of her boards were in the condo’s storage room, but her closet was full and she knew leaving her most used boards in the garage risked theft. She hoped the cameras on the exits were a deterrent.
“Yeah, I guess I like the beach,” she said, immediately not liking her answer.
“Well, good to meet you and welcome,” Nate said. “I should also tell you I’m current president of the homeowners association. I know you rent from the corporate owners — we approved that — but if you need anything HOA-related, knock on my door on the first floor.”
“Oh, okay. I will.”
“And I hope to see you at one of the mixers down in the courtyard.”
“I haven’t heard about that.”
“First Friday of every month, not including today, of course. Happy hour. It’s BYOB but people share.”
“Okay, good. Maybe I’ll see you there. And nice to meet you.”
“Happy New Year!”
“Same.”
Ballard was still getting used to having neighbors and felt awkward during the meet and greets — especially when it came out that she was a cop. She had spent most of the last four years alternating between a tent on Venice Beach and using her grandmother’s house in Ventura for sleeping. But Covid-19 shut the beaches, while the growing homeless population in Venice made it a place she didn’t want to be. She had rented the apartment, which was only ten minutes from the station. But it meant having neighbors above and below and to the left and right.
Nate headed toward the elevator, while she decided on the stairs so she wouldn’t have to ride with him and make more small talk. Her phone started to buzz and she struggled to pull it from her pocket without dropping the paperwork from Bosch. She saw on the screen that it was Lisa Moore calling.
“Fuck me,” Lisa said by way of hello.
“What’s wrong, Lisa?” Ballard asked.
“We got a case and I’m five minutes from the Miramar with Kevin.”
Ballard interpreted that to mean the Midnight Men had claimed another victim and Moore was almost to the resort in Santa Barbara with her boyfriend, a sergeant at Olympic Division.
“What’s the case?” she asked.
“The victim didn’t call it in till an hour ago,” Moore said. “I thought we were clear.”