Dark Sacred Night

14

Ballard awoke to the sound of panicked voices and an approaching siren so loud she could not hear the ocean. She sat up, registering that it was not a dream, and pulled the inside zipper down on her tent. Looking out, she reacted to the sharp diamonds of light reflecting off the dark blue surface of the ocean. Using her hand to shield her eyes, she looked for the source of the commotion and saw Aaron Hayes, the lifeguard assigned to the Rose Station tower, on his knees in the sand, huddled over a man’s body lying supine on the rescue board. A group of people were standing or kneeling beside them, some onlookers, some the fretful and crying friends and loved ones of the man on the board.

Ballard climbed out of the tent, told her dog, Lola, to stay at her post in front of it, and walked quickly across the sand toward the rescue effort. She pulled her badge as she approached.

“Police officer, police officer!” she shouted. “I need everybody to stand back and give the lifeguard room to work.”

No one moved. They turned and stared at her. She wore after-swim sweats and her hair was still wet from that morning’s surf and shower.

“Move back!” she said with more authority. “Now! You are not helping the situation.”

She got to the group and started pushing people into a semicircle formation ten feet back from the board.

“You too,” she said to a young woman who was crying hysterically and holding the drowning victim’s hand. “Ma’am, let them work. They are trying to save his life.”

Ballard gently pulled the woman away and turned her toward one of her friends, who grabbed her into a hug. Ballard checked the parking lot and saw two EMTs running toward them, a stretcher between them, their progress slowed by their work boots slogging through the sand.

“They’re coming, Aaron,” she said. “Keep it going.”

When Aaron raised his head to get a breath, Ballard saw that the lips of the man on the board were blue.

The EMTs arrived and took over from Aaron, who rolled away and stayed on the sand, panting for breath. He was wet from the rescue. He watched intently as the EMTs worked, first intubating and pumping water out of the victim’s lungs, then adding a breathing bag.

Ballard squatted next to Aaron. They had a casual romantic relationship, sometime lovers with no commitment beyond the time they were together. Aaron was a beautiful man with a V-shaped, muscular body and angular face, his short hair and eyebrows burned almost white by the sun.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“He got caught in a rip,” Aaron whispered back. “Took me too long to get out of it once I got him on the board. Shit, the warning signs were out, up and down the beach.”

Aaron sat forward when he saw the EMTs react to getting a pulse on the victim. They started moving quickly and transferred the man to the stretcher.

“Let’s help them,” Ballard said.

She and Hayes moved across the sand and took sides on the stretcher behind the EMTs. They lifted and moved quickly across the sand to the parking lot, where the ambulance waited. One of the EMTs carried his share of the weight one-handed while continuing to squeeze the air bag.

Three minutes later the rescue ambulance was gone and Ballard and Hayes stood there, hands on their hips and winded. Soon the family and friends caught up, and Aaron told them which hospital the victim was being taken to. The hysterical woman hugged him and then followed the others to their cars.

“That was weird to see,” Ballard said.

“Yeah,” Hayes said. “Third one for me this month. The riptides have been off the charts.”

Ballard was thinking of something else, of a time many years before on a beach far away. The image of a broken surfboard carried in by the waves. Young Renée searching the diamonds on the surface for her father.

“You okay?” Hayes asked.

Ballard came out of the memory and noticed the strange look on his face.

“Fine,” she said.

She checked her watch. Most days she tried to get six hours in the tent after a morning on the water, whether it be surfing or paddling. But the commotion from the rescue had gotten her up after just four. The adrenaline rush with the rescue and run across the beach guaranteed she would not be going back to sleep.

She decided on an early start to work. There was follow-up to do on John the Baptist and several boxes of shake cards still to get through, whether or not the man from the Moonlight Mission turned out to be a valid suspect.

“Don’t you have a debriefing now or something?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “The beach captain will come interview me and we’ll write it up.”

“Let me know if you need anything from me.”

“Thanks. Will do.”

She hesitantly gave him a hug, then turned and walked back toward her tent to collect her things and her dog. The memory of Hawaii returned as she looked out at the sea: her lost father and the need to be by the water’s edge, waiting for something that could never be.

15

Before heading into the station, Ballard parked her van on Selma a half block from the Moonlight Mission. Through the iron bars of the gate surrounding the back parking area she could see John the Baptist’s van. It meant he was presumably home.

Bosch had gotten a look inside the van during the traffic stop and had shared the cell phone photos he had taken. There had been nothing of an incriminating nature. Not that they would have expected it after nine years. But she had noticed that the parking enclosure at the rear of the mission house gave the van close access to the back door. If the van was backed in, a body could be transferred from it and into the house quickly with only a split-second exposure outside. Additionally, she was curious about the stand-alone garage on the other side of the parking apron. Both times she had seen the van, it had been in the driveway and not in the garage. Why wasn’t the garage used? What was in there that prevented the van from being parked inside?

Ballard’s instinct about John McMullen was that he wasn’t the guy. He had seemed sincere in his defense and his complaint during their confrontation early that morning. Detectives develop a sixth sense about character and often had to rely on these fleeting takes to judge people. She had shared her take on McMullen with Bosch as they drove away following the roust. Bosch didn’t disagree but said the preacher still needed to be cleared beyond a quick search of his van before they moved on.

Now she was sitting in her own van, looking at the Moonlight Mission and needing to get a look inside. She could wait and do it with Bosch but she had no idea when he would be available. She had sent him a text checking on his status but had gotten no reply.

Ballard’s rover was in its charging slot back at the station. She didn’t like the idea of going in alone and without that electronic link to the mother ship, but the option of waiting made her even more uncomfortable. Seeing the drowning man and being reminded of her father had put her on edge. She needed to crowd out those thoughts and knew that making this move would do it. Work was always the distraction. She could lose herself in the work.

She pulled her phone and called the inside line to the watch office. It was almost five and the PM watch shift was on. A lieutenant named Hannah Chavez picked up the call.

“It’s Renée Ballard. I’m following up on something from the late show and don’t have a rover with me. Just wanted to let you know I’m going to be code six at the Moonlight Mission at Selma and Cherokee. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, can you send a backup?”

“Roger that, Ballard. But while I got you, you handled the DB up in the hills the other night, right?”

“Yeah, that was me. It was accidental.”

“Right, what I heard. But we just got a B and E call from that location. The burglary table has checked out for the day and I was going to shelve it till tomorrow but now I’m thinking—”

“You might want me to handle it.”

“Read my mind, Ballard.”

“Not really, but I’ll cruise over after I clear the mission.”

“I’ll tell my guys to hang till you get there.”

“How’d we get the call?”

“The family had arranged for some bio cleaners to get in there after the death. They apparently found the place ransacked and called it in.”

“Roger that. Remember, back me up in an hour if I don’t hit you back.”

“Moonlight Mission — you got it.”

Ballard climbed out of the driver’s seat and into the back of her van. Last week’s dry cleaning was on hangers on an equipment hook. She changed into what she considered her third-string work outfit, a chocolate Van Heusen blazer with a chalk pinstripe over the usual white blouse and black slacks. She emerged from the back of the van, locked it, and headed down the street to the mission.

She just wanted to take a look around inside, get a sense of the place, and maybe brace McMullen again. The direct approach was called for. She walked in through the front gate and up the steps to the porch. A sign on the door said WELCOME, so she opened it and entered without knocking.

Ballard stepped into a wide entry area with arched passages to rooms to the right and left and a wide, winding staircase in front of her. She walked into the center and waited a moment, expecting McMullen or someone else to appear.

Nothing.

She looked through the archway to the right and saw that the room was lined with couches, with a single chair in the middle, where the facilitator of a group discussion might sit. She turned to check the other room. Banners with Bible quotations and images of Jesus hung side by side on the far wall. At the center of the room was what looked like a free-standing sink with a crucifix rising from the porcelain sill where a faucet was intended to be.

Ballard stepped into the room and looked into the sink. It was half filled with water. She looked up at the banners and realized that not all the images were of Jesus. At least two featured drawings of the man she had met that morning.

Ballard turned to go back into the entrance hall and almost walked into McMullen. She startled, stepped back, and then quickly recovered.

“Mr. McMullen,” she said. “You snuck up on me.”

“I did not,” McMullen said. “And in here I am Pastor McMullen.”

“Okay. Pastor McMullen.”

“Why are you here, Detective?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Ballard turned and gestured toward the sink.

“This is where you do your work,” she said.

“It’s not work,” he said. “This is where I save souls for Jesus Christ.”

“Well, where is everybody? The house seems empty.”

“Each night I seek a new flock. Anyone I bring in to feed and clothe must be on their own by this time. This is just a way station on the journey to salvation.”

“Right. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Follow me.”

McMullen turned and headed out of the room. His heels kicked up from under his robe and Ballard saw that he was barefoot. They went around the staircase and down a short hallway into a kitchen with a large eating space taken up by a long picnic table and benches. McMullen stepped into a side room that might have been a servant’s pantry when the house was originally built but now served as an office or perhaps a confessional. It was spartan, with a small table and folding chairs on either side of it. Prominent on the wall opposite the doorway was a paper calendar with a photo of the heavenly skies and a verse from the Bible printed on it.

“Please sit,” McMullen said.

He took one chair and Ballard sat opposite him, leaving her right hand down by her hip and her weapon.

She saw that the wall behind McMullen was lined with cork. Pinned to it was a collage of photos of young people wearing layers of sometimes ragged clothing. Many had dirty faces, some were missing teeth, some had drug-glazed eyes, and all of them comprised the homeless flock that McMullen brought to his baptismal font. The people on the wall were diverse in gender and ethnicity. They shared one thing: each smiled for the camera. Some of the photos were old and faded, others were covered by new shots pinned over them. There were first names and dates handwritten on the photos. Ballard assumed these were the dates of their acceptance of Jesus Christ.

“If you are here to talk me out of a complaint, then you can save your words,” he said. “I decided that charity would be more useful than anger.”

Ballard thought about Bosch’s saying that it would be suspicious if McMullen did not make a complaint.

“Thank you,” she said. “I was coming to apologize if we offended you. We had an incomplete description of the van we were looking for.”

“I understand,” McMullen said.

Ballard nodded at the wall behind him.

“Those are the people you’ve baptized?” she asked.

McMullen glanced behind him at the wall and smiled.

“Just some of them,” he said. “There are many more.”

Ballard looked up at the calendar. The photo showed a gold and maroon sunset and a quote:

Her eyes scanned down to the dates and she noticed that a number was scribbled in each day’s square. Most were single digits but on some days the number was higher.

“What do the numbers mean?” she asked.

McMullen followed her eyes to the calendar.

“Those are the numbers of souls who receive the sacrament,” he said. “Each night I count how many people took the Lord and Savior into their hearts. Each dark sacred night brings more souls to Christ.”

Ballard nodded but said nothing.

“What are you really doing here, Detective?” McMullen asked. “Is Christ in your life? Do you have faith?”

Ballard felt herself being pushed onto the defensive.

“My faith is my business,” she said.

“Why not proclaim your faith?” McMullen pressed.

“Because it’s private. I don’t... I’m not part of any organized religion. I don’t feel the need for it. I believe in what I believe. That’s it.”

McMullen studied her for a long moment before repeating a question.

“What are you really doing here?”

Ballard returned the penetrating look and decided to see if she could draw a reaction.

“Daisy Clayton.”

McMullen held her eyes but she could see he was not expecting what she had said. She could also see that the name meant something to him.

“She was murdered,” he said. “That was a long — Is that your case?”

“Yes,” Ballard said. “It’s my case.”

“And what does it have to do with—”

McMullen stopped short as he apparently answered his own question.

“The stop this morning,” he said. “The detective looked in my van. For what?”

Ballard ignored his question and tried to steer things in the direction she wanted to go.

“You knew her, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, I saved her,” he said. “I brought her to Christ and then he called her home.”

“What does that mean? Exactly.”

“I baptized her.”

“When?”

McMullen shook his head.

“I don’t remember. Obviously before she was taken.”

“Is she on the wall?”

Ballard pointed behind him. McMullen turned to study the collage.

“I think— Yes, I put her up there,” he said.

He got up and moved to the corked wall. He started pulling pins and tacks and removing the outer layers of photos, which he gently put down on the table. In a few minutes he had taken off several layers and then stopped as he studied one.

“I think this is Daisy,” he said.

He pulled down the photo and showed it to Ballard. It depicted a young girl with a pink blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair had a streak of purple and was wet. Ballard could see some of the banners from the baptism room in the background. The photo was dated by hand four months before Daisy Clayton’s murder. Instead of writing her name she had drawn a daisy on the corner of the photograph.

“It’s her,” Ballard said.

“She was baptized into the grace of Jesus Christ,” McMullen said. “She’s with him now.”

Ballard held up the photo.

“Do you remember this night?”

“I remember all of the nights.”

“Was she alone when you brought her here?”

“Oh, well, that I don’t remember. I would have to find my calendar from that year and look at the number on that date.”

“Where would the calendar be?”

“In storage. In the garage.”

Ballard nodded and moved past McMullen to look at the photos still on the corked wall.

“What about here?” she asked. “Are there others who were baptized the same night?”

“If they allowed their pictures to be taken,” McMullen said.

He stepped next to Ballard as they scanned the images. He started taking down photos and checking the dates on the back, then pinning them back up to the side of the collage.

“This one,” he said. “It has the same date.”

He handed Ballard a photo of a dirty and disheveled man who looked to be in his late twenties. Ballard confirmed that the date on the back matched the date of Daisy’s baptism. The name etched in marker on the print said Eagle.

“Another,” he said.

He handed her another photo, this one of a much younger man, with blond hair and a hard look in his eyes. The dates matched and the name on this print was Addict. Ballard took the print and studied it. It was Adam Sands, Daisy’s supposed boyfriend and pimp.

“Looks like that’s it for that date,” McMullen said.

“Can we go look for the calendar?” Ballard asked.

“Yes.”

“Can I keep these photos?”

“As long as I get them back. They’re part of the flock.”

“I’ll copy and return them.”

“Thank you. Follow me, please.”

They went outside and McMullen used a key to open a side door on the free-standing garage. They entered a space crowded with stored furniture and wheeled racks of clothing. There were also several boxes stacked against the walls, some with the years marked on them.

Fifteen minutes later, McMullen unearthed the 2009 calendar from a dusty box. On the date corresponding to the photo of Daisy, the calendar recorded seven baptisms. Ballard then took the calendar and flipped it four months forward to look at the date when Daisy was abducted and murdered. She found no number in the calendar square for the date of the murder or the two days after it.

McMullen saw the empty spots on the calendar at the same time Ballard did.

“That’s funny,” he said. “I almost never take a night off from my work. I don’t — Oh, I remember now. The van had to have been in the shop. It’s the only reason I would miss so many days in a row.”

Ballard looked at him.

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“Of course,” McMullen said.

“You think you have any record of that? Which shop it was, what was wrong with the van?”

“I can look. I think this was a transmission problem back then. I remember I took it to the place on Santa Monica by the cemetery. Santa Monica and El Centro. On the corner. It begins with a Z but I can’t remember the name.”

“Okay. You take a look at your records and let me know what you find. Can I keep this calendar? I’ll copy and return it.”

“I guess.”

Ballard could have photographed the photos and the calendar but she needed to take the originals in case they became evidence in the investigation.

“Good,” she said. “I need to go now. I have a call I need to respond to.”

She pulled out a business card and handed it to McMullen.

“If you find the receipt for the transmission overhaul or remember anything about Daisy, give me a call.”

“I will, I will.”

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

Ballard walked out of the garage and down a walkway to the front gate. She trusted her instincts that John the Baptist was not the killer of Daisy Clayton, but she knew she still had a long way to go before he was in the clear.

16

A white box truck with CCB painted on its side was parked in front of the Hollywood Boulevard house where the woman whose face was eaten by her cat had been found. There was also a patrol car and two blue-suiters standing on the street with a man in a white jumpsuit. This time there was no space for Ballard, who was still driving her own van, so she drove by, gave a wave, and parked in front of a garage two doors down. Few houses on the edge side of the hills had driveways. The garages were right at the curb, and blocking one involved risking the potential ire of a homeowner, especially when the culprit was not obviously a police vehicle.

She walked back to the house in question and had to introduce herself to all three waiting men. She had little experience with day watch blue suiters. These two were named Felsen and Torborg. Both were young and cut with military precision and bearing. Ballard recognized the name Torborg and knew him by reputation. He was a hard charger nicknamed Torpedo, who had accumulated several one-day suspensions for overaggressive enforcement and behavior. Female cops referred to these as testosterone timeouts.

The man in the jumpsuit was named Roger Dillon. He worked for CCB, a biohazard cleaning service. He had reported the burglary. Though he had told his story to Felsen and Torborg, he was prompted to repeat it to the detective, who would actually compose the burglary report.

Dillon said the dead woman’s niece in New York hired his firm to clean and decontaminate the house after her aunt’s body was removed and the premises were cleared as a possible crime scene. She overnighted him her key but it didn’t arrive until the early afternoon, delaying his getting to the house to perform the job. He was under a deadline because the niece, whom Ballard had identified during the death investigation as Bobbi Clark, was due to arrive the following morning. She planned to stay in the house while she organized services and took stock of the property she would be inheriting as the dead woman’s only living relative.

“So, I get here and I don’t even need the key, because the door’s unlocked,” Dillon said.

“Unlocked and open?” Ballard asked. “Or unlocked and closed?”

“Unlocked and closed but so you could see that it wasn’t pulled all the way. I pushed on the door and it opened.”

Ballard checked his hands.

“No gloves on?” she asked. “Show me where you touched the door.”

Dillon moved up the short walkway to the front door. Ballard turned back to Felsen and Torborg.

“Hey, I don’t have my rover with me,” she said. “Can one of you call the watch office and tell them I’m code six here and to cancel the one-hour backup at Moonlight Mission? I forgot about it.”

“Got it,” Felsen said as he keyed his shoulder mic.

“Moonlight Mission?” Torborg said. “Talking to John the Baptist? I knew that freak would act out someday. What did he do?”

“Just talking to him about a cold case,” Ballard said. “It wasn’t much.”

She turned and followed Dillon to the door. Since Torborg obviously knew John McMullen, she wanted to talk to him about his interactions and impressions of the street preacher, but she had to deal with Dillon and the case at hand first.

Dillon was tall and his white coveralls seemed to be a size too small. The cuffs on the pants just ticked the top of his work boots and the overall picture to Ballard was of a boy who had outgrown his clothes. Dillon, of course, was no boy. Ballard pegged him in his midthirties. He had a handsome, clean-shaven face, a full mane of brown hair, and a wedding ring on his finger.

He was poised at the door, his finger running a clockwise circle around a spot shoulder-high on it. Ballard pulled a pair of gloves from her blazer pocket and started putting them on.

“You pushed it open and went in?” she asked.

“Yes,” Dillon said.

She opened the door and held her hand up to signal him to enter.

“Show me what you did next,” she said.

Dillon pulled an air-filtering mask up from around his neck and over his mouth as he entered. Ballard looked back at Felsen and Torborg. Felsen had just finished the radio call to the watch commander.

“Can you see if the print car is available and get an ETA?” she asked.

“Roger that,” Felsen said.

“And don’t leave,” she added. “I need you guys here.”

“The L-T’s already asking when we can clear,” Felsen said.

“Tell her I need you here,” Ballard said sternly.

She entered the house after Dillon. The odor of decay still hung in the air but it had dissipated since she had worked the death case two nights before. Still, she wished she had her air mask, but it was in her kit in her city ride. Along with her hermetically sealable coveralls. She knew her third-string suit would be toast after one wearing. Luckily, the suit she had dropped off at the dry cleaners the day before would be ready in the morning.

“Walk me through it,” she said. “How’d you know it was a break-in? The place was already pretty messed up.”

Dillon gestured over her shoulder to the front wall of the living room. Ballard turned and saw that the three side-by-side prints of red lips were gone. When Ballard had called Bobbi Clark to report that her aunt was dead, Clark had asked specifically about the well-being of the prints, mentioning that they were the work of Andy Warhol and were rare APs — artist’s prints — that were worth over six figures each and even more when combined as a series.

“Ms. Clark told me to be careful of these red lip paintings that were supposed to be in the living room,” Dillon said. “So, I come in and no red lips. I called you guys because this is why I rarely go into a house by myself. I don’t want to get accused of anything. We usually work in twos but my partner’s on another job and this lady Clark really wanted this done today. When she gets here, she doesn’t want to see blood or anything else. She told me about what the cat did.”

Ballard nodded.

“Is it your company or you just work for the company?” she asked.

“It’s mine,” Dillon said. “Two trucks, four employees, available twenty-four-seven. We’re a small shop. You wouldn’t think it, but it’s a competitive business. A lot of companies cleaning up after murders and bad things.”

“Well, this wasn’t a murder. How’d Ms. Clark come to hire you from New York?”

“Recommendation from the M.E. I give out a lot of business cards. And gifts at the holidays. People recommend me. I’ll give you a stack of cards if you’ll take them.”

“Maybe later. I don’t do many crime scenes like this. Not a lot of murders in Hollywood these days and I’m usually on graveyard.”

“They had that five-spot last year at the Dancers. I got that one. Worked four days cleaning up that mess and then they never reopened the joint.”

“I know. I was there that night.”

Dillon nodded.

“I think I saw you on TV for that,” he said.

Ballard decided to get back on track.

“So, you come in, you see the prints are gone. Then what?” she asked.

“I backed out and called you guys,” Dillon said. “Then I waited about an hour for them and then they waited an hour for you. I’m not getting any work done and Ms. Clark lands at ten tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sorry about that, but we have to conduct the investigation — especially if we’re talking about a major theft. We’ve hopefully got a print car coming soon and we’ll need to get yours so we can exclude them. I’m going to ask you to step outside now and wait with the officers while I work in here.”

“How long before I can go to work?”

“I’ll get you cleared as soon as possible but I don’t think you’re getting in here today. Someone will have to do a walk-through in as-is condition with Ms. Clark after she arrives.”

“Shit.”

“Sorry.”

“You keep saying that but I don’t make money on sorries.”

Ballard understood his concerns as the owner of the company.

“I’ll tell you what, get me some of your cards, and I’ll keep them handy down the line.”

“I’d really appreciate that, Detective.”

Ballard followed him out of the house and asked Felsen about the print car. He said the ETA was fifteen minutes and Ballard knew from experience that all waiting times on the print car should be doubled. The car was assigned to the entire West Bureau and was operated by a latent-print tech who responded to all needs, ranging from property capers to violent crimes. It was safe to say the print car tech never stopped working.

Technically, Ballard was supposed to follow a protocol in which she would first study the crime scene and look for likely spots where the suspect could have left prints. Only upon finding possibilities should she call for the print car. But in reality, when it came to property crimes, the practice was the opposite. Delaying in calling the print car added up to long waits. She always called first to get her case in line and then started looking at the scene. She could then call the car off if she didn’t find any likely deposits.

Ballard knew she was pushing her luck with Dillon but took a shot anyway at asking if he had a spare breathing mask. He surprised her by saying yes.

He walked to the back of his truck and rolled up the door. The interior was stuffed with wet vacuums and other equipment. He pulled a box of throwaway masks out of a drawer in a tool chest and handed her one.

“The filter in there is good for a day,” he said. “That’s it.”

“Thank you,” Ballard said.

“And I’ve got my cards right here.”

He reached into another drawer and took out a stack of about ten business cards. He gave them to Ballard, who saw that the small print under CCB was the company’s formal name: Chemi-Cal Bio Services. She put the cards in her pocket and thanked Dillon, even though she knew her opportunities to recommend his services would be few.

She left him there and went back inside the house, pulling on the breathing mask as she went. She stood in the living room and took in the place, observing and thinking. The removal of the source of decomposition — the body — would explain the decrease in noxious odor. But Ballard had been in houses like this before in the days after death and she believed that more than the removal of the body had helped the process. She concluded that she was looking for an open window.

She moved to the far wall of glass and soon realized that the panels were on tracks that disappeared into a wall. The panels could be pushed into the wall, creating a wide opening onto the rear deck and giving the house an indoor-outdoor style. She slid open the first glass panel and stepped out onto the deck. She saw that it ran the length of the house behind the guest bedroom and the master. On the far end of the deck sat a rectangular air-conditioning unit. It had been removed from the wall below a window and left there. It must have been the burglar’s access point and the opening from which some of the decomp stink had escaped.

Ballard walked down the deck to look at the opening. It was at least two feet tall and three wide. The AC unit looked relatively new. The homeowner had probably added it to provide extra cooling in the bedroom during the hottest weeks of summer.

Ballard had the point of entry. Now the question was, how did the burglar get to it? The house was cantilevered over the steep hillside. She stepped to the guardrail and looked down. That was not the way. It would have been too difficult a trek, requiring ropes and hoists. That kind of planning conflicted with the fact that the air conditioner had been left out of its wall slot. This indicated the sloppy work of an opportunist, not a planner.

She looked up. The roof of the deck was supported in four places by ornate black ironwork that formed a repeating pattern of tree branches crossing between two risers. Whether intentional or not, each one created a makeshift ladder down from the roof.

Ballard stepped back into the house and went out the front door. Dillon was leaning against his truck. When he saw her, he straightened up and spread his arms wide questioningly.

“Where’s the print car?” he asked. “When am I going to get out of here?”

“Soon,” Ballard said. “Thank you for your patience.”

She pointed to his truck.

“But in the meantime, I saw you had a ladder on the wall inside your truck,” she said. “Could I borrow it for a few minutes? I want to get on the roof.”

Dillon seemed happy to have something to do, especially if it further indebted the LAPD to him.

“No problem,” he said.

While Dillon got the ladder, Ballard stepped out into the street and walked along the front of the house. The design of the structure was all geared toward the view out the other side. That’s where the deck, windows, and glass doors were. This side, which was just three feet from the curb, was drab and monolithic save for the front door and one small window to the master bathroom. This fortresslike design was softened with alternating concrete planters containing bamboo stalks and vine-entwined lattices. Ballard studied the latticework and saw places where the vines had been damaged by someone using the connections as foot- and handholds for climbing. It was another improvised ladder.

Dillon banged an extension ladder against the house. Ballard looked over and he gestured with his hand: all yours.

While Dillon held the ladder steady, Ballard climbed to the flat roof. She walked toward the back edge, looking for footprints in the gravel or any other evidence of a burglar. There was nothing.

She got to the far edge and looked out at the view. It was getting dark and the setting sun was turning the sky red and pink. She knew it would be a good sunset at the beach. She momentarily thought of Aaron and wanted to check in on him to see if he had any news on the man he had pulled out of the riptide.

Turning her attention back to the case at hand, she was now sure she had found the burglar’s path. He had climbed up the lattice in the front, crossed the roof and climbed down the ironwork on the back deck. After removing the air conditioner, he had entered and taken the three prints off the wall as well as whatever other property might be missing. At that point, he simply walked out the front door with the stolen goods, leaving the front door slightly ajar.

There were elements of genius mixed with naïveté. All aspects of the caper told her it had occurred under cover of darkness. That meant the burglary had happened on the night right after the discovery of the victim’s death. Someone had acted quickly, most likely with knowledge of the artwork in the house and its value — as well as its owner’s death.

She turned in a circle, scanning the immediate neighborhood. She knew it was a city of cameras. Finding them was always high on any investigative protocol. Nowadays you looked for video before witnesses. Cameras didn’t lie or get confused.

Hollywood Boulevard curved in and out along the mountain’s edge. The house she stood on was at a sharp bend around a blind curve. Ballard spotted a house on the curve that had a camera ostensibly aimed at a side stairway down to a landing below street level. But she knew that depending on the camera’s angle, there was a chance its field of view included the roof she stood on.

The print car arrived as Ballard was descending the ladder, again with Dillon holding it steady for her. She first walked the tech through the house and deck, pointing out as possible spots for latents the wall where the three Warhols had been located as well as the AC unit left on the back deck. Then she stepped out front and introduced Dillon, asking the tech to take his prints first for exclusionary purposes. She thanked Dillon for his time and the use of his ladder and told him he was clear to leave as soon as he was printed.

“You sure I’m not going to be able to do the cleaning tonight?” he asked. “I’ll wait around.”

“It’s not possible,” Ballard said. “Ms. Clark is going to have to do the walk-through with somebody from dayside burglary. We don’t want the place cleaned before that.”

“Okay, thought I’d try.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No worries. Make sure you use those cards.”

He gave a little wave and went to the back of his truck to close it. Ballard headed down the street in the direction of the camera she had spotted. Ten minutes later she was talking to the owner of the home around the blind curve and looking over his shoulder at the video playback from the camera located on the side of his house. It had a full but digitally murky capture of the entire roof of the home that had been burglarized.

“Let’s start at midnight,” Ballard said.

17

Ballard had her badge out and up when the door was opened. The man standing there looked concerned but not surprised. He was in sweats and one hand was in the front warmer of the sleeveless hoodie. Ballard could tell he was a “better living through science” guy. He had thick arms and the pronounced neck veins and hard eyes of a ’roid rider. His brown hair was slicked back over his head. His green eyes were glassy. He was shorter than Ballard but probably out-weighed her two to one.

“Mr. Bechtel? Theodore Bechtel?”

“It’s Ted. Yes?”

“I’m Detective Ballard, LAPD. I would like to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”

Bechtel didn’t answer. He stepped back to allow her room to enter. Ballard walked in, turning slightly sideways as she passed him so she wouldn’t lose direct sight of him. At this point, she considered him to be a burglar. She didn’t want to give him the chance to add assault or murder to the list.

Bechtel reached over to close the door after she entered. She stopped him.

“Can we leave that open if you don’t mind?” she said. “A couple of my colleagues will be coming.”

“Uh, I guess so.”

She turned in the circular entry area to look at him and accept further direction. But Bechtel just looked at her.

“You’ve come for the Warhols, right?” he asked.

She wasn’t expecting that. She hesitated, then composed a response.

“Are you saying you have them?” she asked.

“I do,” he said. “They’re in my study. Where they’re nice and safe.”

He nodded as if to confirm a job well done.

“Can you show me?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

Bechtel led Ballard down a short hallway into a home office. Sure enough, the three red lips prints were leaning against the wall. Bechtel spread his hands as if to present them.

“I think those are Marilyn Monroes,” he said.

“Excuse me?” Ballard responded.

“The lips. Warhol used Marilyn’s lips. I read it online.”

“Mr. Bechtel, I need you to explain why these are in your house and not on the wall of the house across the street.”

“I took them for safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping. Who told you to do that?”

“Well, nobody told me to do it. I just knew somebody needed to do it.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, because everybody knew she had them in there, and they were going to get stolen.”

“So, you stole them first?”

“No, I didn’t steal them. I told you. I brought them over here for safekeeping. To keep them for the rightful heir. I hear she had a niece in New York who gets everything.”

“That’s the story you want to go with? That this was some kind of neighborly act of kindness?”

“It’s what happened.”

Ballard stepped back from him and took stock of what she knew and what she had in terms of witnesses and evidence.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Bechtel?”

“Nutrition. I sell supplements. I have a store down in the flats.”

“Do you own this house?”

“I rent.”

“How long have you been up here?”

“Three months. No, four.”

“How well did you know the woman who lived across the street?”

“I didn’t. Not really. Just to say hello to. That sort of thing.”

“I think at this point I need to advise you of your rights.”

“What? Are you arresting me?”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“Mr. Bechtel, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney to represent you. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them?”

“I don’t understand. I was being a good neighbor.”

“Do you understand your rights as I have recited them to you?”

“Yes, shit, I understand. But this is completely unnecessary. I have a business. I didn’t do—”

“Sit down in that chair, please.”

Ballard pointed to a chair that was against the wall. She kept pointing until Bechtel reluctantly sat down.

“This is amazing,” he said. “You try to do a good thing and you get hassled for it.”

Ballard pulled her phone and speed-dialed the watch office. Before knocking on Bechtel’s door, she had requested backup because Felsen and Torborg had been sent to another call while she had been down the street looking at video. Now she was facing a situation where she had to make a felony arrest without backup. Her call wasn’t answered for six rings. While she waited, she casually took a few steps farther back from Bechtel so she would have more time to react should he decide he didn’t want to be arrested.

Finally, her call was answered by a voice she didn’t recognize.

“This is two-whiskey-twenty-five, where’s my backup?”

“Uh... I don’t see that here on the board. You sure you called for backup?”

“Yes, fifteen minutes ago. Send it. Now. No delay. And keep this connection open.”

Ballard barked the address into the phone, then refocused on Bechtel. She would find out about the missing backup later.

Bechtel was sitting with both hands in the front pocket of his hoodie.

“I want you to take your hands out of the hoodie and keep them where I can see them,” she said.

Bechtel complied but shook his head like this whole thing was a misunderstanding.

“Are you really arresting me?”

“Do you want to explain why you climbed over the roof of the house across the street, broke in on the back deck, and took three artworks worth several hundred thousand dollars?”

Bechtel didn’t speak. He seemed surprised by her knowledge.

“Yeah, there’s video,” Ballard said.

“Well, I had to get in there somehow,” he said. “Otherwise, somebody else would’ve and then the paintings would be gone.”

“They’re prints, actually.”

“Whatever. I didn’t steal them.”

“Did you take anything else besides the prints?”

“No, why would I do that? I just cared about the paintings. The prints, I mean.”

Ballard had to decide whether to cuff Bechtel to neutralize the threat or to wait for backup, which now might be another ten to fifteen minutes away. It was a long time to wait with a suspect not fully controlled.

“The District Attorney’s Office will decide whether a crime was committed. But I will be arresting you. Right now I want you—”

“This is such bullshit—”

“—to get up from the chair and face the wall. I want you to kneel on the floor and lace your fingers behind your head.”

Bechtel stood up but didn’t move any further.

“Kneel down, sir.”

“No, I’m not kneeling down. I didn’t do anything.”

“You are under arrest, sir. Kneel down on the ground and lace your—”

She didn’t finish. Bechtel started moving toward her. It was crystal clear in the moment that if Ballard pulled her gun, she would probably have to use it, and it would most likely be the end of her career, no matter how justified a shooting it would be.

But what wasn’t clear was whether Bechtel was coming at her or trying simply to walk around her and leave the room.

He moved as if heading toward the door but then suddenly pivoted toward her. Ballard tried to use his advantage — his weight and muscles — against him.

As Bechtel advanced, Ballard placed a well-directed kick to his groin, then took two steps back and to the side as he doubled over and lurched forward, emitting a sharp groan. She grabbed his right wrist and elbow, pushed the wrist down and pulled the elbow up as she pivoted him over her leg. He went down face-first and she dropped all 120 pounds of her weight through her knees onto the small of his back.

“Don’t fucking move!”

But he did. He groaned like a monster and attempted to rise, doing a push-up off the floor. Ballard drove a knee into his ribs and he dropped to the floor again with an oof. She quickly grabbed the cuffs off her belt and clasped one over his right wrist before he realized he was being cuffed. He struggled against the next one but Ballard had the leverage. She pulled the wrists together against his spine and closed the second cuff around the left. Bechtel was now controlled.

Ballard got up, exhausted but exhilarated that she had taken the stronger man to ground.

“You’re going to jail, motherfucker.”

“This is all a big mistake. Come on, this is wrong.”

“Tell it to the judge. They love hearing bullshit from guys like you.”

“You’ll regret this.”

“Believe me, I already do. But it doesn’t change anything. You’re going to jail.”