As she was wrapping up with them, Ballard got a call from Moore, who was at Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center.
“The victim’s family is all here, and they’re about to get the word that he didn’t make it,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”
I want you to act like a trained detective, Ballard thought but didn’t say.
“Keep the family there,” she said instead. “I’m on my way.”
“I’ll try,” Moore said.
“Don’t try, do it,” Ballard said. “I’ll be there in ten. Do you know if they speak English?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Okay, find out and text me. I’ll bring somebody in case.”
“What’s it looking like over there?”
“Too early to tell. If it was an accident, the shooter didn’t stick around. And if it wasn’t, I’ve got no camera and no witnesses.”
Ballard disconnected and walked over to Rodriguez.
“Victor, you need to drive me to Hollywood Pres,” she said.
“No problem.”
Ballard informed Byron of where she was going and asked him to keep the crime scene secured until she got back.
As she crossed the lot, following Rodriguez to his car, she saw the first drops of rain hitting the asphalt amid the bullet casings.
4
Rodriguez used the lights but not the siren to speed their drive to the hospital. Ballard used the minutes to call her lieutenant at home to update him. Derek Robinson-Reynolds, the OIC of Hollywood detectives, picked up immediately, having texted Ballard his request for the update.
“Ballard, I was expecting to hear from you sooner than this.”
“Sorry, L-T. We had several witnesses to talk to before we could get a handle on this. I also just heard that our victim is DOA.”
“Then I’ll have to get West Bureau out. I know they’re already running full squad on a two-bagger from yesterday.”
Homicides were handled out of West Bureau. Robinson-Reynolds was ready to pass the investigation off but knew it would not be well received by his counterpart at West Bureau Homicide.
“Sir, you can do that, of course, but I haven’t determined what this is yet. There were a lot of people shooting guns at midnight. Not sure if this was accidental or intentional. I’m heading to the hospital now to get a look at him.”
“Well, didn’t any of the witnesses see it?”
“Not the witnesses who stuck around. They just saw the victim on the ground. Anybody who saw it happen scrammed out of there before the unis got on scene.”
There was a pause as the lieutenant considered his next move.
They were a block from the hospital. Ballard spoke before Robinson-Reynolds responded.
“Let me run with it, L-T.”
Robinson-Reynolds remained silent. Ballard made her case.
“West Bureau is running on the two-bagger. We don’t even know what this is yet. Let me stay with it and we’ll see where it stands in the morning. I’ll call you then.”
The lieutenant finally spoke.
“I don’t know, Ballard. Not sure I want you capering out there on your own.”
“I’m not alone. I’m with Lisa Moore, remember?”
“Right, right. Nothing on that tonight?”
He was asking about the Midnight Men.
“Not so far. We’re pulling into Hollywood Pres now. The family of the victim is here.”
It pushed Robinson-Reynolds to make a decision.
“Okay, I’ll hold off on West Bureau. For now. Keep me informed. No matter the hour, Ballard.”
“Roger that.”
“Okay, then.”
Robinson-Reynolds disconnected. Ballard’s phone buzzed with a text as Rodriguez was pulling to a stop behind Ballard’s car, which had been left by Moore in an ambulance bay.
“Was that Dash?” Rodriguez asked. “What did he say?”
He was using the short name ascribed to Robinson-Reynolds by most in the division when not addressing the lieutenant personally. Ballard checked the text. It had come from Moore: No English spoken here.
“He gave us the green light,” Ballard said.
“Us?” Rodriguez said.
“I’m probably going to need you in here too.”
“Sergeant Byron told me to double-time back.”
“Sergeant Byron’s not in charge of the investigation. I am, and you’re with me until I say otherwise.”
“Roger that — as long as you tell him.”
“I will.”
Ballard found Moore in the ER waiting room, surrounded by a group of crying women and one teenage boy. Raffa’s family had just gotten the bad news about their husband and father. A wife, three adult daughters, and the son were all exhibiting various degrees of shock, grief, and anger.
“Oh, boy,” Rodriguez said as they approached.
Nobody liked intruding on the kind of trauma unexpected death brings.
“I heard you want to be a detective someday, V-Rod,” Ballard asked.
“Fuck, yeah,” Rodriguez responded.
“Okay, I want you to help Detective Moore interview the family. Do more than translate. Ask the questions. Any known enemies, his association with Las Palmas, who else was at the shop tonight. Get names.”
“Okay, what about you? Where are — ”
“I need to check the body. Then I’ll be joining you.”
“Got it.”
“Good. Let Detective Moore know.”
Ballard split off from him and went to the check-in counter. Soon she was led back to the nursing station that was in the middle of the ER. It was surrounded by multiple examination and treatment spaces separated by curtain walls. She asked a nurse if the body of the gunshot victim had been moved yet from a treatment space and was told that the hospital was waiting for a coroner’s team to pick it up. The nurse pointed her to a closed curtain.
Ballard pulled back the pastel-green curtain, entered the single-bed examination space, and then closed the curtain behind her. Javier Raffa’s body was faceup on the bed. There had been no attempt to cover him. His shirt — a blue work shirt with his name on an oval patch — was open and his chest still showed conduit ointment, likely from paddles that had been used in an attempt to revive him. There were also whitish discolorations on the brown skin of his chest and neck. His eyes were open, and there was a rubber device extending from the mouth. Ballard knew it had been placed in his mouth before the paddles were used.
Ballard pulled a pair of black latex gloves out of a compartment on her equipment belt and stretched them on. Using both hands, she gently turned the dead man’s head to look for the entry wound. His hair was long and curly, but she found the entry at the upper rear of his head under hair matted by blood. Judging from its location, she doubted there was an exit wound. The bullet was still inside, which in terms of forensics was a break.
She leaned farther over the bed to look closely at the wound. She guessed that it had been made by a small-caliber bullet and noticed that some of the hair around it was singed. It meant that the weapon had been held less than a foot away when discharged. She saw specks of burnt gunpowder in Javier Raffa’s hair.
In that moment, Ballard knew this had been no accident. Raffa had been murdered. A killer had used the moment when all eyes were cast upward to the midnight sky and there was gunfire all around to hold a gun close to Raffa’s head and pull the trigger. And in that moment, Ballard knew she wanted the case, that she would find a way to keep this conclusion to herself until she was too deeply embedded to be removed.