The Dark Hours (23 page)

After pulling out of the garage, Ballard drove around the block and found a SID team working under portable lights on Hoover, a block behind her building. There was a flatbed from the OPG moving into position in front of a black Chrysler 300. A table had been set up under one of the crime scene lights, and Ballard recognized the face of the man with a clipboard, writing on what she assumed was an evidence log. She pulled to the curb, got out, and approached the lights.

“Reno,” she said.

Reno looked up and clearly remembered Ballard from the callout to Cindy Carpenter’s house.

“Detective Ballard,” he said. “You okay? Sounded like a close call for you.”

“It was,” Ballard said. “Did you work my apartment too?”

“I did.”

“Cool. And this is the dirtbag’s car?”

“Yeah, we’re going to take it to the print shed.”

“Where’d you find the key?”

“On the front left tire.”

Ballard looked down at the table. There were three brown paper evidence bags with red tape sealing them. One had a sticker that warned anyone handling it that the bag contained a
firearm. She tried to hide her excitement and act as though she was already in the know.

She pointed at the bag.

“Is that the P-twenty-two?”

“Yup. Also found up in the wheel well. Not a good place to hide a weapon. We always look there first or second. And supposedly he used to be a cop — from what I hear.”

“What about ammo?”

“Just what was in the weapon.”

“Remington?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, well, have a good night.”

“You too.”

Ballard returned to her car. She was confident that the gun found in the wheel well of Bonner’s car had been used in the two homicides she had connected.

She headed off toward Bosch’s house, checking the time on the dashboard. She figured that she could pick up Bosch and get to Hoyle’s house by eleven. The late hour would work in her favor. Nobody likes a cop to knock on their door that late at night.

Her phone buzzed and she saw that it was Garrett Single calling.

“Hey, Garrett.”

“Renée, hi. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m so glad to hear it.”

“Thanks for your help. Sorry if it sounded like I was yelling at you.”

“Not at all. But, hey, I thought you should know, some detectives from SID were just here talking to me about it.”

“You mean FID?”

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe. You guys on the other side of the wall have too many acronyms. It’s alphabet soup over there.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Just that I helped you try to save the guy and then I FaceTimed it with you.”

Ballard realized that she had completely forgotten about Face-Timing Single so he could visually check the insertion point of the field trach in Bonner’s neck. After the stress and adrenaline flood of the life-and-death struggle had subsided, the moments had lost clarity and she had forgotten details. She hadn’t even mentioned the FaceTime call during her own FID interview. She found this lapse understandable — it was the reason she liked to interview a victim of violence multiple times over multiple days. Now she had experienced for herself the way details came back over time.

“Man, too bad you didn’t record that,” Ballard said.

“Uh, actually, I did,” Single said. “I have an app. I thought I should record it in case we needed to look at it again.”

“Did you tell them that?”

“Yeah, they wanted it.”

“You let them take your — Wait, you’re on your phone.”

“I just sent them the video. I wasn’t going to give up my phone.”

“Great, can you send it to me? I just want to look.”

“Sure. Is everything else okay? I mean, the guys that came here were asking a lot of questions about you.”

“As far as I know, everything’s good. It was clean. But I’m still working. I mean, I’m supposed to be riding a desk until the report comes out.”

“Then I should let you go.”

“Let’s talk tomorrow, okay? I think things will slow down then.”

“Sure. Be safe.”

“You too.”

Ballard disconnected. She was relieved to learn there was a video record of at least part of the event that was under investigation. She knew that whatever Single had captured would support the story she had told FID. More than that, she was happy that Single had called.

A smile played on her face in the darkness of the car as she drove.

Ballard was delayed in getting to Bosch’s house because she went by the station to check out one of the drug unit’s undercover cars, grab a rover, and dummy up a couple of prop files. After grabbing the keys to a Mustang labeled as a buy car with audio/video capture, she headed into the back lot to look for the vehicle. She encountered Lieutenant Rivera standing at the open trunk of his personal car. It looked like he was just coming in to work. Guessing that Sanderson and the FID team would not be throwing a wide net in their investigation of Bonner, Ballard decided to go at Rivera herself.

She walked directly to him as he was getting his gun out of lockbox.

“Ballard, thought you were off tonight,” he said.

“I am but I’m working a case for dayside,” she said. “I need to ask you something, L-T.”

“Shoot.”

“Last night I asked you about Christopher Bonner. You called him after that, didn’t you?”

Rivera bought time by making a show of holstering his weapon and then closing the trunk.

“Uh, I might have,” he said. “Why?”

Ballard guessed that Rivera had probably slept through the day and didn’t know what had happened.

“Because he broke into my apartment and tried to kill me today,” she said.

“What!”
Rivera exclaimed.

“Somehow he knew I was onto him. So, thanks, L-T. I hope it wasn’t you who gave him my address.”

“Wait a minute, Ballard. I did no such thing. All I did was pass on that somebody asked about him — like anybody would with a friend. You didn’t tell me you were investigating him. You said his name came up in your case. That’s it and that’s all I told him. He broke in? Jesus, I had no — ”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah, and you should expect a visit from FID.”

Ballard walked away and left him there. It felt good to make the link, but she knew it didn’t fill in all the blanks. She also believed her throwing FID at Rivera would be an empty threat. She did not expect Sanderson to take his investigation much further than he had already.

It took her five minutes to find the UC car in the vast parking lot. She then had to gas it up at the department pump across the street from the station on Wilcox. Finally, she was off and headed toward the hills and Harry Bosch’s house.

It was another hour before she pulled to a stop in front of Dennis Hoyle’s home, with Bosch sitting next to her and fully briefed on her plan.

“Here we go,” Ballard said.

They got out and approached the house. There was a light on over the front door but most of the windows were dark. Ballard pushed a doorbell and knocked. She looked around for a home security camera but did not see one.

After another round of knocking and doorbell ringing, Hoyle finally answered. He was wearing gym pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt with the silhouette of a surfer on it. He held a cell phone in his hand.

“You two,” he said. “What the hell is this? It’s almost midnight.” There was a surprised look on his face but Ballard had no way of discerning whether it was surprised by the late night visit or the fact that Ballard was alive.

“We know it’s late, Dr. Hoyle,” Ballard said. “But we thought you wouldn’t want this to happen in the middle of the day with the neighbors watching.”

“What? You’re arresting me? For what? I was asleep!”

Working the late show, Ballard had more than once heard an incongruous protest about sleep being some sort of safeguard against arrest or police questioning. She reached behind her back and under her jacket to take the handcuffs off her belt. She then dropped her arm so Hoyle could see them in her hand. It was an old trick that would reinforce his assumption that he was about to be arrested.

“We need to talk to you,” Ballard said. “We can do it here or at Hollywood Station. Your choice.”

“Okay, here,” Hoyle said. “I want to talk here.”

He turned and looked back into his house.

“But my family is — ”

“Let’s talk in the car.”

He hesitated again.

“In the front seat,” Ballard said. “As long as we’re talking, we’re not going anywhere.”

As if to reassure him she hooked her cuffs back onto her belt.

“My partner will stay outside the car, okay?” she added. “Not much room in the back. So it will be just you and me talking. Very private.”

“I guess,” Hoyle said. “It still feels weird.”

“Then let’s go inside and we’ll try not to wake anybody up.”

“No, no, your car is fine. Just as long as we’re not going anywhere.”

“You can get out anytime you want.”

“Okay, then.”

Bosch led the procession down the stone walkway across the manicured lawn to the UC car.

“Is this your own car?”

“Yeah, so I apologize ahead of time. It’s kind of dirty inside.”

Bosch opened the passenger-side door for Hoyle, who got in. Bosch closed the door and looked at Ballard as she circled behind the car to the driver’s side. He nodded. The plan was a go.

“Stay toward the front,” she whispered.

She opened the driver’s door and got in. Through the windshield, she saw Bosch take a position leaning against the front fender on the passenger side.

“He looks really old to be a detective,” Hoyle said.

“He’s the oldest living detective in L.A.,” Ballard said. “But don’t tell him I said that. He’ll get mad.”

“No worries. I’m not saying anything. Why don’t you two have a detective car?”

“The one we were assigned, the heat doesn’t work. So we took mine. You cold? You must be cold.”

She put the key in the ignition and turned it to the accessory setting. The dashboard lights came on and she reached for the heat control.

“Let me know if you want more heat.”

“I’m fine. Let’s get this over with. I have an early start tomorrow.”

Ballard checked Bosch again through the windshield. He had his arms crossed and his head down, adopting the posture
of a guy who was tired of these routine interviews. Hoyle turned and looked out the window at his front door, as though reminding himself that he had to get back through it before this was over. Ballard used the moment to lean forward and reach under the dashboard to turn on the car’s audio/video system. The car was equipped with three hidden cameras and microphones for recording undercover drug buys. It would now capture everything that was said or done in the car from that moment on, putting it all on a chip in a recorder located in the trunk.

“Okay, I have to start by giving you the standard rights warning,” she said. “The department requires it of every interview, even if someone is not a suspect, because of adverse court rulings that — ”

“Look, I don’t know,” Hoyle said. “You said you just wanted to talk, now you’re giving me my rights? That’s not — ”

“Okay, listen, I’m just going to give you the rights warning and ask if you understand them. At that point, you have a choice: talk to me, don’t talk to me, and we go from there.”

Hoyle shook his head and put his hand on the door handle. Ballard knew she was about to lose him.

She hit the button that lowered her window. She called to Bosch, who came around the car. She grabbed the rover from the center console and held it out to him.

“We may need a car for a custody transport,” she said. “Can you deal with that?”

“Got it,” Bosch said.

He reached for the radio.

“Wait, wait,” Hoyle said. “Jesus Christ, okay, read me my rights. I’ll talk, let’s just get this over with.”

Ballard withdrew the radio and Bosch nodded. It was going about how they thought it would.

She put the window up and turned to Hoyle. From memory she gave him the Miranda warning and he acknowledged that he understood his rights and was agreeing to talk to her.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

“Ask your questions,” Hoyle said.

“After you saw us at the memorial service yesterday, who did you call?”

“Call? I didn’t call anyone. I drove home.”

“I gave you my card. I need to know who you told about me.”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t tell anyone.”

Hoyle had raised his voice enough for Bosch to hear it. He looked over his shoulder at Ballard through the windshield. She nodded slightly. Bosch pulled his phone and started making a call. He pushed off the front fender and walked to the front of the car while waiting for a connection.

“Who’s he calling?” Hoyle asked.

“I don’t know,” Ballard said. “But you need to think carefully here, Dr. Hoyle.”

Ballard paused and watched Bosch. He held his phone to his ear for a few moments, then took it down and ended the call. Ballard glanced over at the phone still in Hoyle’s hand. Its screen was dark. Hoyle had not sent the “Report” text to Bonner — at least not on the phone he was holding. Ballard now had to wonder who had sent it.

“Think carefully about what?” Hoyle said.

“This is one of the moments when the decision you make will affect the rest of your life,” Ballard said.

Hoyle turned toward the door and again reached for the handle.

“Now you’re scaring me. I’m getting out.”

“You get out, and the next time you see me will be when I kick down your door with a warrant and drag you out of there in front of your neighbors.”

Hoyle turned back to her.

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want. Who did you call after we met at the memorial?”

“Nobody!”

Ballard started reaching into the backseat of the car.

“I want you to look at something, Doctor.”

She pulled two thick files off the backseat floor and onto her lap.

“I want you to know we’ve been onto you since Albert Lee and John William James.”

“Onto what?”

“Onto everything. The factoring, the insurance fraud, the company you and your friends made, the murders …”

“Oh my god, this can’t be happening.”

“It is. And that’s why you have to make a choice here. Help or hinder. Because if you can’t help me, I’m going to the next partner. If he doesn’t help, I go to the next. Somebody’s going to be smart or get smart. And then it will be too late for the others. I only need to put one insider in front of the grand jury. I thought it was going to be you, but it doesn’t matter.”

Hoyle leaned forward and for a moment Ballard thought he was going to vomit onto the floor in front of his seat. But then he pulled back, eyes closed, misery all over his face.

“This is all Jason’s fault,” he said. “I should have never …”

“Jason Abbott?” Ballard asked.

“No, I’m not saying another word until you promise to protect me. He’ll send his guy after me!”

“We can protect you. But right now you need to give me what I need. Who did you tell about me after the memorial? That is question one.”

“All right, all right. I told Jason. I said the cops had cornered me, and he yelled at me for even going to that thing in the first place.”

“Do you know who Christopher Bonner is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Who found the people you and the others would loan money to?”

“Jason had somebody. I never got involved.”

“You didn’t know he was going to have them — ”

“No! Never. I didn’t know any of that until he did it. And then it was too late. I looked guilty. We all did.”

“So you just went along with it.”

“I didn’t have a choice. Don’t you see? I didn’t want to get killed. Look what happened to J.W.”

“John William James.”

“Yes. He said ‘no more’ to Jason, and look what happened to him.”

“What about his wife? Was she part of this?”

“No, no, no — she doesn’t know anything.”

“How many were there?”

“How many what?”

“You know what I’m asking. How many times did the factoring lead to somebody dying?”

Hoyle bowed his head in shame and closed his eyes.

“If you lie to me one time, I will no longer help you,” Ballard said.

“There were six,” Hoyle said. “No, seven. Javier Raffa was number seven.”

“Including James?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Ballard looked through the windshield at Bosch. He had been watching them, seeing but not hearing Hoyle talk. They locked
eyes and Ballard nodded. She had gotten what she needed. Hoyle was on video.

“Go back inside now, Doctor,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone about this. If you do, I’ll know and I’ll bury you.”

“Okay,” Hoyle said. “But what do I do now?”

“You just wait. You’ll hear from a detective named Bettany. Ross Bettany. He’ll tell you what to do.”

“Okay.”

“You can get out now.”