The Dark Hours

29

Ballard felt the weight on her ribs and arms before anything else. She opened her eyes to darkness and realized she had been blindfolded. No, it was the sleep mask. A hand covered her mouth and gripped her jaw. Her first thought was the Midnight Men — How did they find me? Did they see me on Outpost? Her memory flashed on the car she had seen in her rearview mirror pulling into the lane behind her at Gelson’s.

She tried to struggle but the weight on her was too much. She violently turned her head to the side to loosen the grip of the hand on her jaw so that she could scream, but just as quickly the grip tightened, she was pulled back faceup, and pressure was applied to her chin, pulling her mouth open.

She heard the distinctive metal click of a gun cocking and that threw thoughts of the Midnight Men askew. None of the victims had mentioned a gun. It was two against one — they didn’t need a gun.

Ballard realized all the weight was on the top half of her body. Her attacker was straddling her ribs, his legs pinning her arms to the bed. She couldn’t move her upper body but her hips and legs were unrestrained. That was the flaw in the attack.

With all of the panicked, adrenaline-charged effort she could muster, she brought her knees up, planted her feet in the mattress and thrust her hips up, tipping her attacker forward into the headboard.

The move was unexpected and the attacker hit the hard wooden headboard with a clunk. The barrel of the gun scraped down Ballard’s chin but the weapon didn’t fire. Ballard’s right arm broke free and she used it to shove the attacker to her left and off the bed. She heard him hit the floor. She yanked off the sleep mask and saw a man she immediately recognized on the floor.

It was Bonner.

He was struggling to get up. His left arm was swinging up and toward her with the gun — her gun — in his grasp. Ballard drew her right elbow back and then pistoned a strike forward into his throat.

Bonner fell back to the floor, dropped the gun, and brought both hands up to his neck. His face flushed red and his eyes widened as he realized he could not take in air. Ballard realized she had crushed his throat with the fist strike. She untangled herself from the blanket and sheet and rolled onto the floor. She now straddled him, swept her gun across the floor behind her, and reached up to her phone to call 911.

“This is Detective Ballard, LAPD, I need an ambulance to four-three-four-three Finley right away. Have a man here who can’t breathe.”

Bonner started making gagging sounds and his face was now more purple than red.

“Hold while I put it out,” the emergency dispatcher said.

Ballard was put on hold. She reached down and tried to put her hand under Bonner’s chin to see if she could feel where the blockage was. He pushed her hand away instinctively.

“Stop fighting,” she said. “I’m trying to help.”

As if responding to her but more likely due to the lack of oxygen going to his brain, Bonner’s hands fell away from his neck and dropped to the floor. There was a dry scraping sound coming from his open mouth. His eyes were open, staring up at her, and he was dying.

The dispatcher came back on the phone.

“Okay, we are en route.”

“What’s the ETA?”

“Four minutes.”

“He’s not going to make that. He’s coding right now.”

“Can you open his passageway?”

“It’s crushed.”

Ballard blurted out her apartment number and the code to the main entrance gate, then disconnected. She quickly pulled up her contact list and called Garrett Single. He answered immediately.

“Renée, how’s the noggin?”

“Garrett, listen to me. I need you to talk me through a field trach.”

“Wait, what are you—”

“Listen, there’s no time. I have a man here, he can’t breathe. His upper throat is blocked. I have EMTs coming but he won’t make it that long. Talk me through a field tracheotomy. Now.”

“This is a gag, right?”

“Goddammit, no! I need you to tell me what to do. Now!”

“Okay, okay, uh, where exactly is the block?”

“Upper throat. He’s over a minute without air. He’s circling.”

“Above or below the Adam’s apple?”

“Above.”

“Okay, good. Put something under his neck so it’s clear and arched, jaw pointing up.”

Ballard put the phone on speaker, then placed it on the floor. She reached under the bed and blindly grabbed a shoe — a running shoe. She reached down with one hand to raise Bonner’s neck, then shoved the shoe in like a wedge.

“Okay, got it. What’s next?”

“Okay, this is important — you have to find the spot.”

“What spot?”

“Use your finger and trace along the front of the neck. You are looking for a spot between the rings. The Adam’s apple is the big ring. Go below it and find the next ring.”

Ballard did as instructed and found the second ring.

“Got it, got it.”

“Okay, you want the soft spot between the rings — do you have a knife? You need a scalpel or a knife to make a small incision.”

Ballard reached up to the bed table and pulled the drawer out completely. It dropped to the floor over Bonner’s head. She scrambled her hand through the junk she had thrown in there after moving in — all stuff she’d planned to find a spot for later. She found the small Blackie Collins folding knife she had carried when she was in uniform. She depressed the lock and opened the blade.

“Okay, got it. Where do I cut?”

“Okay, the soft spot you found between the rings. The soft tissue. You need to make an incision there. But first, you’re sure he’s not breathing? You don’t want to do this if—”

“He’s purple, Garrett. Just tell me what to do.”

“Okay, a small incision — like a quarter of an inch wide in the soft tissue between the cartilage. Horizontal and not too deep. You don’t want to go through the windpipe. No more than half an inch.”

Ballard carefully positioned the point of the blade and pushed it into the skin. Immediately blood came out and ran down both sides of Bonner’s neck to the wood floor. But it wasn’t much and Ballard took that as a sign that Bonner’s heart was shutting down.

“Okay, I’m there.”

“Okay, you need to put in the tube so that air—”

“Shit, what tube? I didn’t think—”

Ballard reached over and swiped her free hand through the junk drawer while carefully holding the knife in place in Bonner’s neck. She saw nothing that would work.

“Do you have a plastic straw or a pen or anything that you could—”

“No! I don’t have shit! God—”

She remembered something and yanked open the bottom drawer of the bed table. After she had separated her shoulder surfing a few years before, she had bought a recirculating pump that pushed cold water into a rubber wrap that she could lay over her shoulder to ease the pain and swelling. A clear plastic tube connected the pump to the wrap. She yanked it out of the drawer and put it down on the floor.

“Okay, I found something. Can I take the knife out of his neck to cut the tube?”

“Do it.”

“How long do you want the tube?”

“No more than six inches needed.”

Ballard pulled the knife back and quickly cut a six-inch length of the tube with the razor-sharp blade.

“Okay, got it. What next?”

“Put one end of the tube through the incision and into the airway. Don’t go more than an inch in. Just push it through.”

Ballard did as instructed and felt the tube break through and into the windpipe.

“Okay, I’m in. Does he just start breathing, or what?”

“No, you have to get him started. Breathe into the tube. Check his chest, make sure it’s rising. Not too hard. Be gentle.”

Ballard jumped off Bonner and moved to his side. She gently blew into the tube and saw his chest rise.

“Okay,” she said.

“All right, watch his chest,” Single said. “You want to see if he breathes on his own.”

“It went down, that’s it.”

“Try it again, try it again.”

Ballard repeated the procedure, with no result.

“Nothing. Trying again.”

“You may have to breathe for him until the rescue gets there.”

Ballard tried again and then crouched low so she could watch the profile of Bonner’s chest. She saw it go down as air escaped through the tube. But then it rose again on its own.

“I think... he’s breathing. Yes, he’s breathing.”

“Well done, Detective. How’s his color?”

Ballard looked at Bonner’s face. The purple was leaching out of it. Fresh blood was circulating.

“It’s good. It’s getting there.”

“Okay, what I want you to do is call me back on FaceTime so I can look at him. Can you do that?”

Ballard disconnected the call without replying and then called back on FaceTime. While she waited for the call to go through, she reached up to the top of the bed table to grab her handcuffs. She snapped one cuff around Bonner’s right wrist and clamped the other around the metal bed frame half a foot away.

She looked down at Bonner. His eyes were slits and he showed no sign of being conscious, but there was no doubt that he was breathing. There was a low whistling sound coming from the tube she had inserted into his neck.

Single answered the call and Ballard saw his face. It looked like he was outside, and she could see the yellow brick of the fire station behind him.

“You’re hurt,” he said. “Are you okay?”

For the first time, Ballard remembered the barrel of the gun being dragged down her chin. She brought her hand up to touch the wound and felt blood.

“I’m okay,” she said. “Take a look at him.”

She flipped the camera so Single could see Bonner on the floor. She could now hear sirens but was unsure whether they were on her end of the call or Single’s.

“You see him?”

“Yes. Uh, it looks good. Actually, it looks perfect. He’s breathing and his color is good. You got rescue on the way?”

“Yeah, I think I hear them now.”

“Yeah, that’s them. They’re coming. Who is this guy? You handcuffed him?”

“I just did that in case he woke up. I was sleeping and he broke in. He was going to kill me with my own gun — I think to make it look like suicide.”

“Jesus, why?”

“He’s a murder suspect. Somehow he found out I was onto him and where I live.”

“Holy shit!”

“Yeah.”

Ballard tried to think of how Bonner could have known about her and the investigation. The easy answer was Dennis Hoyle. She had spooked Hoyle, and he in turn sent Bonner after her. That reminded her — Bosch had been there as well.

“Listen, Garrett, I need to make another call,” she said. “Thank you so much for helping me.”

“I don’t know if I should have, if this guy was trying to kill you,” he said.

Ballard smiled.

“That might be the sweetest thing anybody’s ever said to me. I’ll call you later.”

“I’m here. And Renée, I’m glad you’re okay.”

After hanging up, Ballard immediately called Bosch. He picked up, and there was no indication of stress in his voice.

“Harry, you’re okay?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because Bonner just tried to take me out. He’s on the floor of my apartment.”

“Give me the address. I’m on my way.”

“No, it’s handled. But you’re okay? I thought maybe he went to you first.”

“All good. You sure you’re safe?”

“Yeah. I almost killed him. But I’ve got people coming. You stay back but be ready. After I clear this, I want to pay a visit to Dr. Hoyle.”

“I want to be there for that.”

Ballard disconnected. She heard the sirens cut off in front of the building. She knew she had to work quickly. She crouched down and started going through the pockets of Bonner’s pants. She found a phone that looked like a cheap convenience-store burner in one pocket and a small leather wallet holding a set of lockpicks — Bonner’s way into the apartment — in another. There was no vehicle key or anything else.

She put the pick set back in the pocket where she found it but buried the phone under the junk in the bed table drawer. The rattle of jewelry and other belongings made Bonner stir. There was a louder sound of rushing air from the breathing tube and he opened his eyes as Ballard pulled back from the drawer. He made a move to raise his upper body but then quickly stopped as he sensed something was wrong. He tried to move his right hand but it was cuffed to the bed frame. He brought his left hand up to his throat and found the protruding tube.

“You pull that out, you die,” Ballard said.

He looked at her.

“I crushed your windpipe,” she said. “That tube is what you’re breathing through.”

His eyes moved about as he took in the room and the circumstances. Without moving his head, he cast his eyes down and saw the handcuff. He then looked at Ballard and she saw something register in his eyes. It was like he understood where he was and what was going to happen to him.

In one swift move he reached up and yanked the breathing tube out. He threw it over the bed and across the room. He stared at Ballard as his face began to get red. It was then that she heard the rescue team coming through the door to her apartment.

30

Ballard was hours into her FID interview before she knew for sure that Bonner was dead. Her two interviewers had keyed in on what had happened after he had supposedly — their word, not hers — pulled the tube from his neck.

“Look, why would I put the tube into his throat and try to save the guy’s life and then pull the tube out again?” she asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Sanderson replied.

Captain Gerald “Sandy” Sanderson was the lead interviewer. He was also the officer in charge of the Force Investigation Division — the man who for years had been tasked with sweeping out the bad cops who got involved in questionable shootings, choke holds, and other unauthorized uses of force. Under the present pressures and politics of the department and the public, it was wholly believed across the ranks that any officer who got into a scrape of any kind was out. The details of the incident didn’t matter. Sanderson was there to sand down the sharp edges of the department and make everything smooth. That meant washing out anybody whose actions might be seen as controversial from any angle.

Ballard had felt it two minutes into her interview, not two hours. A murder suspect had obviously followed her and used lockpicks to break into her home while she slept. She had defended herself, and the man had died, whether by his own hand or not, and she was getting hammered by the very people who should have her back. The world had gone sideways, and for the first time in a long time Ballard thought she might lose her job. And for the first time in a long time she thought that might not be so bad.

The interview was taking place in the detective bureau of the Northeast Division, which encompassed Los Feliz. This was routine, but still Ballard felt cut off from her division and the people she worked with. At one point, when Sanderson’s second, Detective Duane Hammel, stepped out to get fresh batteries for his recorder, Ballard saw Lieutenant Robinson-Reynolds standing out in the bullpen. That gave her a moment of relief because she knew he would be able to confirm what he knew of her investigation. She had never told him about Bonner but he knew from her last briefing that she was closing in on something.

Ballard had not looked at the time since being woken by Bonner’s attack. She didn’t know how long she had slept and therefore couldn’t fix the hour. Her phone had been taken from her. It was daylight when Bonner attacked and when she was treated at the rescue wagon for the cut on her chin. But now she had been in a windowless interview room for what she estimated was two hours.

“So let’s connect the dots one more time,” Sanderson said. “You’re saying you did not know and had no previous interaction with Christopher Bonner, correct?”

“Yes, correct,” Ballard said. “The first time I met him — if you want to call it meeting him — was when I woke up and he was on top of me, trying to stick my gun into my mouth.”

“So, how is it that he knew where you lived, apparently knew your schedule, and knew you would be asleep at three o’clock in the afternoon?”

Ballard was thankful that Sanderson had slipped a time marker into his question. She could now extrapolate that it was somewhere between 6 and 7 p.m. But what was more important was Sanderson’s asking how Bonner would know her sleep schedule. There was no way Hoyle could know what her assignment or work schedule was from her business card or their brief interaction. She decided not to mention that in her answer to Sanderson.

“As I have said repeatedly in this interview,” she said, “I attempted to question Dennis Hoyle at the memorial yesterday for Javier Raffa. He was clearly spooked. In a homicide investigation, one of the first questions is, who benefits? The answer in this case is Dennis Hoyle. My attempt to interview him led to him jumping in his car and driving away. He didn’t want to talk to me. I now have to assume he called Bonner, and Bonner came after me. Those are the dots and that is the connection.”

“It will bear further investigation,” Sanderson said.

“I hope so, because I don’t want Hoyle to get away with this or with Raffa.”

“I understand, Detective. A moment please.”

Sanderson leaned back in his chair and looked down to his legs. Ballard knew he had his phone on his thigh and was probably getting texts from his other FID investigators. Ballard, when she had worked with a partner, had followed the same practice. It allowed for real-time information and questions.

Sanderson looked up at her after reading the latest text.

“Detective, why is Harry Bosch calling your cell phone every thirty minutes?”

Ballard had completely kept Bosch out of her story while being questioned. She now had to answer carefully so as not to step on any land mine. Having now been sequestered for over two hours, for all she knew, Sanderson’s team had already interviewed Bosch, and Sanderson already had the answer. She had to make sure their stories matched even though she didn’t know what Bosch had said or would say.

“Well, as you probably know, Harry is retired LAPD,” she began. “I have had cases in the past that involved some of his old investigations, and so I have known him for four or five years and he’s sort of taken on a mentor’s role with me. But specifically in this case, I told you that I linked the Raffa murder to another case through ballistics. That case — the victim’s name was Albert Lee — was investigated by Harry Bosch nine years ago. When I made that connection, I reached out to Bosch to pick his brain about the case and get any sort of angle on this thing that I could.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, it was information from Bosch that allowed me to further find out who benefits. In the Albert Lee case, his business and insurance policy went to a dentist who had loaned him the money to keep his business afloat. That dentist was partners with Hoyle in another business. Bosch helped me make those connections. Bonner became the suspected killer in both cases. But I believe he was sent after these victims, the same way he was sent after me.”

“By the dentists.”

“Roger that.”

Ballard immediately shook her head. She had to stop that.

“So, when we speak to Bosch, he will tell the same story?” Sanderson asked.

“If he speaks to you,” Ballard said. “He did not leave the department on good terms. So good luck with that.”

“And there is nothing romantic there between you and Bosch?”

“If I was a man and I had reached out to a retired detective with a connection to my case, would you ask me if there was a romance between us?”

“I take that as a no.”

“You can take it however you want, but I am not answering questions like that. But I am glad this is recorded.”

Sanderson tried to stare Ballard down but she didn’t blink.

“Now can I ask you something?” Ballard said.

“You can always ask,” Sanderson said. “I can’t promise I will answer.”

“Have you found Bonner’s car?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because I assume that if he drove, he parked in my neighborhood, and since he had nothing in his pockets but lockpicks, I assume there will be a phone, wallet, maybe notes and other things, in his car. Maybe the gun that killed my two victims. If I were you, I’d be looking for his car right now.”

“I can assure you that the investigation is continuing outside this room, Detective. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Good. What about the media? Are they onto this yet?”

“Detective, in this room, I am asking the questions. You have another repeat caller to your cell that I would like to ask you about. Garrett Single, the paramedic you told us coached you through the field tracheotomy. He has called you more times than Bosch. Why is that?”

“Well, I won’t really know until I can talk to him and find out, but my guess is that he wants to know if I’m all right.”

“He cares about you.”

“I think he does.”

Ballard braced for the romance question but Sanderson surprised her.

“Thank you, Detective,” he said. “And for now I think we have enough information from you. We are placing you on desk duty until we complete our investigation. In the meantime, I am ordering you not to contact or talk to the media about this incident. If you are contacted by a person in the media, you are to refer them to—”

“Wait a minute,” Ballard said. “Who’s going to work the case? We’re not going to drop it while you and your people decide whether I did anything wrong.”

“My understanding is that the case has already been transferred to West Bureau Homicide. They will take it from here. By your own testimony, we are talking about a suicide. I’m sure they will close it quickly and you will be back to work.”

“I’m not talking about Bonner killing himself. I’m talking about the Javier Raffa case and the Albert Lee case.”

“Again, West Bureau will handle it.”

What was in play here only then hit Ballard. Christopher Bonner was ex-LAPD and that was an image problem. Not only was it a huge issue that an ex-LAPD officer was likely a hit man before and after he left the job, but whether he still had connections in the department was unknown. Thanks to Sanderson’s questions, Ballard already had one idea about the ties Bonner still had. Add to that the missing murder books, and this was a high-octane scandal waiting to explode in the media. It was best to keep everything compartmentalized. And tying together the murders of Albert Lee and Javier Raffa and solving them would only work against the department.

“I know what you’re going to do,” Ballard blurted out.

“Really?” Sanderson said. “What am I going to do, Detective?”

“You’re going to sand and sweep. Like you always do. This department is so fucked up. It’s like we don’t even care about victims anymore. It’s protect and serve the image instead of the citizens.”

“Are you finished, Detective?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m finished. Where’s my phone? Where’s my gun? I want them back.”

Sanderson turned to look at Hammel, who had returned and was standing with his back to the door.

“Her lieutenant has her phone,” the sidekick said.

Sanderson turned back to Ballard.

“Check with your lieutenant about the phone,” he said. “Your weapon is being processed. You will get that back when appropriate. In the meantime, you can ask your lieutenant about a temporary replacement from the armory. It may not be necessary, as for the moment you are assigned to desk duty.”

He waited a moment for Ballard to respond. She didn’t.

“Then I think we’re finished here,” Sanderson said.

Everyone stood up. The men from FID were closest to the door, and Ballard let them leave first. When she was last out of the interview room, she found Robinson-Reynolds waiting for her in an empty bullpen. Through the casement windows Ballard could see that it was full dark outside.

The lieutenant stood up from the desk he had been leaning on with folded arms.

“Renée, you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll take you back to your place.”

“Do you have my phone?”

“Yes. They gave it to me.”

Robinson-Reynolds reached into his suit coat pocket and produced Ballard’s phone. She checked the screen to see what calls had come in. Five minutes earlier Bosch had once again tried to call her.

She decided not to call him back until she was alone, but while her lieutenant watched, she quickly fired off a text telling Bosch she was fine and would call him in a half hour.

Ten minutes later she was in the front passenger seat of Robinson-Reynolds’s car, telling him to get to Commonwealth Avenue and head south.

“You’re probably going to want to pack some things and stay somewhere else for a while,” Robinson-Reynolds said. “A friend’s place, or if you want a hotel, I’ll find a way to make the department cough up a chit for it.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Ballard said.

“You sure? Your room is probably a mess — courtesy of Forensics.”

“I’ve got a big couch.”

“Okay, Renée.”

“So, what about West Bureau?”

“What about it?”

“Ross Bettany called me to take over the case. I’m supposed to meet him tomorrow.”

“Then meet him. He’s still taking it.”

“I want to know if they’re going to work it. Bonner was LAPD. It felt in there with Sanderson that this wasn’t going anywhere, because solving it means putting that out there: veteran LAPD officer turned hit man.”

“You really think they would cover it up — a murder?”

“It’s two murders — at least. And yes, I do, because Bonner, the shooter, is dead. As far as Sanderson goes, it’s case closed. Taking it the next step and going after the people who ordered the hits, that’s dangerous, because all of the Bonner stuff will tumble out and the department gets its ass kicked once again.”

“Don’t overthink it, Ballard.”

Ballard noticed he was back to addressing her by her last name.

“It’s not overthinking,” she said. “It’s the reality we live in.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s going to be West Bureau’s reality, not ours. So just follow protocol, Ballard. Turn the case over to the guy and go back to work on the Midnight Men.”

“Roger that.”

She said it in a tone of resignation that signaled that she would never say those two words again.

31

Ballard crossed the center courtyard to use the stairs, because the building’s elevator was so slow. But before she got to the first step, she heard her name called. She turned and saw a man stepping out the door of his first-floor apartment. He came toward her. It was the bicyclist she had met over the weekend, but already she couldn’t remember his name.

“Hi,” she said.

“Some crazy stuff here today,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine now.”

“I mean, I was told a guy broke in and tried to kill you.”

“He did. But it’s complicated and the police are investigating.”

“But you are the police.”

“Yes, but I’m not investigating this, so I can’t really talk about it.”

She started to move back toward the stairs.

“We aren’t used to this sort of thing here,” the neighbor said.

Ballard turned back.

“That’s a good thing, then,” she said. “Neither am I.”

“Well, I know you’re new,” the neighbor said. “And I hope that this sort of thing isn’t going to be normal. I feel as HOA president that I need to say that.”

“I’m sorry, what is your name again?”

“It’s Nate. We met in the—”

“The garage, I remember. Well, Nate, I don’t consider it normal when somebody tries to kill me in my bed. But you should know that he was a stranger and that it was a break-in, and I was thinking that the next time you have a homeowners’ meeting, you might want to review the security around here. He got in here somehow, and I’d hate to see the HOA be held responsible for anything. That could be expensive.”

Nate blanched.

“Uh, totally,” he said. “I, uh, I’m going to call a special meeting to review building security.”

“Good,” Ballard said. “I’d like to hear how that goes.”

This time she turned and Nate had nothing further to say. She took the steps two at a time and found her front door had been left unlocked by the investigators. Typical LAPD incompetence. She locked it after entering and quickly moved through the apartment to her bedroom. The junk drawer she had pulled out of the bed table that afternoon during the struggle with Bonner was still on the floor. She could see fingerprint dust on its handle. Rooting through the drawer, she found the burner phone she had buried in the junk. She snapped it open and saw that it had either been powered off or its battery had died.

She fumbled with it, looking for the on/off button and found none. She held her thumb down on the 0 button but nothing happened. She then tried the 1, and the phone’s screen finally came to life. Once it was fully booted, she went to work checking for stored numbers and recent calls. There were none but the texting app had a single message, timed at 4:30 p.m. that day from an 818 area code. It was just one word: Report.

“Got you,” she whispered.

She stared at the phone for a few moments, considering her next move. She knew she had to be careful and conservative. If she answered the text wrong, the lead could disappear like cigarette smoke in the wind. If she used the phone in any way — to text or call — she could be tampering with evidence. She decided to wait and closed the phone. She went into the kitchen and put it in a Ziploc bag and sealed it. Pulling her own phone, she called Bosch.

“You up for a ride?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “When?”

“Now.”

“Come get me.”

“On my way. And, uh, I’ll need a gun. They’re processing mine and my backup’s in my locker.”

“Not a problem.”

Ballard liked how he answered without any question or hesitation.

“Okay, see you soon,” she said.

32

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 FaceTiming 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.

33

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.”

34

Bosch had brought a thermos of coffee with him. When Ballard had picked him up, he came out with the thermos and two to-go cups. Ballard had told him they weren’t going to a stakeout, but he’d said, you never know.

Bosch had always been a sort of homicide guru to Ballard. Ever since the night she caught him going through files in the D-bureau — long after he’d retired. She wasn’t sure whether it was wisdom or experience, or if experience brought the wisdom, but she knew he was never just backup. He was her go-to guy and she trusted him.

They didn’t get to Jason Abbott’s house until after one. The house was dark, and there was no answer to repeated knocks on his door. They debated whether he knew what was closing in around him and had fled. But that didn’t fit with the known facts. He may have learned that Bonner was dead, but even that was a stretch, as the man who had killed himself in Ballard’s apartment had no ID on his person. Ballard knew it was Bonner because she recognized him. But his identity would not have been released by the coroner’s office until it had been confirmed through fingerprints and other means.

Ballard believed that, at best, Abbott would know only that Bonner was missing in action. The hit man had not responded to the text or reported back to him in any other way. Abbott may have cruised Ballard’s neighborhood and seen the police activity, but again, it didn’t seem likely that he had enough information to cause him to flee. Ballard was the only one who had the whole picture, and she had shared it with no one but Bosch.

They decided to stay awhile and watch for Abbott’s return. And that was where the coffee in the thermos came in.

“How did you know we would end up out here — maybe all night?” Ballard asked.

“I didn’t,” Bosch said. “I just came prepared.”

“You’re like that guy in the Wambaugh books. The Original. No, the Oracle. They called him the Oracle ’cause he’s already seen everything twice.”

“I like the Original.”

“Harry Bosch, the Original. Nice.”

He reached to the back for the thermos.

“You ever see yourself stopping?” Ballard asked.

“I guess when I stop, it all stops, you know?” he said.

He put the two cups on the dashboard and got ready to pour.

“You want some?”

“Sure, but you can sleep if you want. These are my normal hours, so I’ll be fine.”

“The dark hours belong to you.”

“You got it.”

He handed her a cup of black coffee.

“It’s hot,” he warned.

“Thanks,” Ballard said, accepting it. “But really. I got good sleep until Bonner woke me up. One cup and I’ll be good to go all night. You can sleep.”

“We’ll see. I’ll keep you company for at least a while. What about the car? Aren’t the narcs going to need it back in the morning?”

“If you’d asked me that a year ago, the answer would’ve been... well, I wouldn’t have gotten the car in the first place. But now, post George Floyd and knee-deep in Covid and defunding the department and everything else? Nobody’s doing shit. I didn’t even ask for this car. I just took it because it’s not going to be missed.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“A lot of people are mailing it in. Crime is up but arrests are down. And a lot of people are quitting. I gotta be honest, I’m even thinking of quitting, Harry. Think you could use a partner?”

She said it with a laugh, but in many ways she was serious.

“Anytime — as long as you don’t need a regular paycheck. You’re pretty short of a pension, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but at least I’d get back the money I’ve put in the fund so far. I guess I could also go back to sleeping on the beach.”

“You’d need to get another dog.”

Ballard smiled and then thought of Pinto, the dog she was supposed to meet soon. He wouldn’t make much of a guard dog, though.

“Still,” Bosch said. “It’s always easier to change an organization from within. Street protests won’t do it.”

“You think I’m command staff material?” Ballard asked. “You gotta be on the tenth floor if you’re going to change anything.”

“Not necessarily. I always thought if you fight the good fight, it gets noticed. And then maybe the next guy does the same thing. The right thing.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of department anymore.”

She sipped her hot coffee and thought she recognized the blend right away. She held the cup up like a toast.

“Where do you get this stuff?” she asked.

“My daughter,” Bosch said. “She’s always trying different things, then passes them on to me. This stuck. I like it.”

“Me too. Maddie’s got great taste. You said she has a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, they moved in together. In your neighborhood, in fact. I haven’t been there yet. Haven’t been invited.”

“Whereabouts?”

“You go down Franklin and take the first left after the Shakespeare Bridge at St. George. Up there by the reservoir.”

“But you said you’ve never been there.”

“Well, you know, I had to check it out. I haven’t been inside — put it that way.”

“You’re such a dad. Who’s the guy? Are you worried?”

“No, he’s a good kid. Works in the industry as a set builder.”

“That’s a union gig, right?”

“Yep. IATSE, Local thirty-three. He does pretty well, and that’s all they have coming in with her in the academy. It was slow for him last year but now stuff is picking up. I gave them a little bit to get through.”

“You rented that place for them, didn’t you?”

“Well, I got ’em started, yeah.”

“You’re such a dad.”

“You said that. Feel more like a grandfather these days.”

“Come on. You’ve got a lot of cases still to work, Harry.”

“Especially if I take on a partner.”

Ballard smiled and they lapsed into an easy silence. But then she felt bad about castigating the department his daughter was in training to join.

“Sorry about what I said before about the department,” she said. “It’s just a cycle, and when Maddie gets out of the academy, she’ll be part of the new LAPD.”

“Hope so,” Bosch said.

They dropped back into silence and after a while she heard Bosch’s measured breathing. She looked over. He had just dropped his chin and gone to sleep. He still held his empty cup. That was a real skill.

She took out her phone and checked messages and texts. Garrett Single had emailed her the recording of their FaceTime call when he had checked to see whether Bonner was properly intubated during the field trach. Ballard cut the volume on her phone and started to watch it, but then stopped the playback when she realized she didn’t want to see Bonner.

Instead, she flipped over to her phone’s browser and went to the Wags and Walks website. She navigated to the page for Pinto, the dog she would soon meet. There were several photos of him taken at the shelter.

One short video showed the dog interacting with his foster caretakers. He seemed attentive and wanting to please but he also seemed wary and maybe scarred by past experience. Still, Ballard had a good feeling about Pinto. She couldn’t wait to meet him and take him home.

She closed the video when she heard a ping. At first she thought it was on Bosch’s phone. But then it sounded again and she realized it was coming from Bonner’s burner in the Ziploc, which was in her coat pocket. She pulled the bag out and managed to open the phone without taking it out of the plastic.

The text was just three letters: WTF?

Ballard looked at Bosch. He was still head down and asleep. She wanted to answer the text and attempt to draw the person texting Bonner to a meeting. She could use Bosch’s advice here — there were legal considerations to answering the text — but she didn’t want to wake him up.

Looking at the burner phone, she saw that the battery was running low and its charging port didn’t look like it would fit an iPhone charger. Soon the phone would become useless until charged.

On impulse she started typing a return text on the burner:

She waited and within a minute the phone started to buzz with a call from the number she had sent the text to. She declined the call and sent a new text.

She got an immediate text return:

She immediately typed a response.

More than a minute went by, then:

Without delay, she typed:

She waited for a response but none came. She had to assume the meeting was on. She turned the key on the Mustang and then looked at Bosch. The thrum of the engine was bringing him up out of sleep. He opened his eyes.

“We’re on the move,” Ballard said. “I set up a meeting at Crown Labs.”

“With who?” Bosch said.

“I don’t know yet.”

35

The security gate at Crown Labs had been left open as instructed. There was a single car in the lot when Ballard and Bosch arrived. It was a Tesla Model S with a vanity plate that said 2TH DOC. Ballard parked close behind it so it could not leave.

“Let’s see if Hoyle was telling us the truth,” Ballard said.

She pulled the rover out of its charger and ran the plate through the com center. It came back as a corporate registration. The car was owned by a company called 2th-Doc LLC.

“That was one of the companies I traced ownership of the lab through,” Bosch said. “Jason Abbott is CEO.”

“There you go,” Ballard said.

They got out and approached the door with the cartoon tooth on it. Ballard could tell they were under a flight path to the Burbank Airport. There were no flights operating at this hour but the slight scent of jet fuel still hung in the air.

Ballard checked the roofline and noted the cameras at the front corners of the building and over the door. They would not be surprising anybody inside with their arrival.

The door was unlocked. Ballard opened it and went through first, Bosch close behind her. They stepped into a small empty reception area that appeared to be a place for receiving deliveries of lab supplies, not people. It was totally silent.

Ballard looked at Bosch. He nodded toward a darkened hallway behind the reception counter. Ballard pulled the gun she had borrowed from Bosch out of her belt holster and held it down at her side as she moved around the counter.

The overhead lights of the hallway were off but Ballard saw no switch on the wall for turning them on. There were several open doors that led to darkened spaces and one lighted entranceway on the left near the end of the hallway. Ballard moved slowly past the first doorway. She reached in and ran her hand up the interior wall where she thought a light switch might be. She found it, and overhead lights came on, revealing the room to be a large lab with several workstations and assorted equipment and supplies for building dental implants and crowns.

She moved along the hallway, becoming increasingly aware of their precarious position and exposure there.

“LAPD,” she called out. “Jason Abbott, show yourself.”

There was a long silence followed by what sounded like a muffled scream from the end of the hallway. Ballard started moving swiftly toward the lighted door, raising the gun up in a two-handed grip.

“LAPD!” she yelled. “Coming in!”

She crouched low as she went through the door. She could hear Bosch’s steps right behind her.

They entered a large office that had a sitting area to the left and a desk to the right. In between was a man sitting in a chair. He was partially gagged with a piece of white cloth stuffed into his mouth and held in place by plastic zip ties wrapped around his head and across his mouth. Zip ties also secured his wrists to the arms of the chair and still more held his ankles to the legs.

Ballard swept her aim across the room to make sure there was no one else present. She also checked through the open door to a small bathroom that was to the right behind the desk. She then holstered her weapon as she returned to the center of the room.

“Harry? You—”

“Got it.”

Bosch moved in, unfolding a knife he had withdrawn from a pocket. He first worked on the gag, pulling the zip tie loop away from the man’s jaw to cut it. He then pulled loose the cloth from the man’s mouth and dropped it on the floor. Ballard noted that it was a washcloth, likely grabbed from the bathroom.

“Oh, thank god,” the man said. “I thought he would come back first.”

Bosch moved on to the bindings on the man’s wrists and ankles.

“Who are you?” Ballard asked. “What happened here?”

“I’m Jason Abbott,” the man said. “Dr. Jason Abbott. You saved me.”

He was wearing blue jeans and a light blue button-down shirt with the tails out. The zip ties had left marks on his cheeks. He had a ruddy complexion and blue eyes under a full head of dark, curly hair.

When his wrists were released, he immediately started rubbing them to get circulation going.

“What happened?” Ballard repeated. “Who did this to you?”

“A man,” Abbott said. “His name is Christopher Bonner. He’s an ex-cop. He tied me up.”

After crouching down to cut the ties on Abbott’s ankles, Bosch stood up and backed away. Abbott reached down and rubbed his ankles, exaggerating the action, and then unsteadily stood up and tried to take a few steps. He quickly reached his hands out and leaned down on the front of the desk.

“I can’t feel my feet,” he said. “I’ve been tied to that chair for hours.”

“Dr. Abbott, sit down over here on the couch,” Ballard said. “You need to tell us exactly what happened.”

Ballard held Abbott by the arm and helped him move unsteadily from the desk to the couch, where he sat down.

“Bonner came here and tied me up,” he said.

“When was this?” Ballard asked.

“About two. He came in, he had a gun, and I had to let him tie me up with those plastic things. I had no choice.”

“Two a.m. or p.m.?”

“Two p.m. Like twelve hours ago. What time is it anyway?”

“It’s after four.”

“Jesus. I’ve been in that chair fourteen hours.”

“Why did he tie you up?”

“Because he was going to kill me, I think. He said he had to go do something and I think he wanted me alive and with no alibi when he did it. Then he was going to come back and make it look like I did it. He’d kill me, make it look like a suicide or something and I’d get the blame.”

“He told you all of this?”

“I know it sounds fantastic, but it’s true. He didn’t tell me everything. But I’ve been sitting here for fourteen fucking hours and I put it together. I mean, why else would he tie me up and keep me here?”

Ballard knew that the more she kept Abbott talking, the more his story would become implausible and the flaws in it would show.

“What was it he had to go and do?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Abbott said. “But I think he was going to kill somebody. That’s what he does.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me. He flat out told me. This guy, he’s had his hooks into me for years. He’s been blackmailing me, threatening me, making me do things. And not just me. All of us.”

“Who is ‘all of us,’ Dr. Abbott?”

“My partners. I have partners in the lab, and Bonner bullied his way in and took control. I mean, he was a cop. We were scared. We did what we were told.”

Ballard had to assume that Abbott did not know that Bonner was dead. But trying to throw the blame on him was probably the best ploy he could come up with when he saw Ballard and Bosch on the lab’s exterior cameras and deduced that it hadn’t been Bonner texting him about “complications.”

“So you think this was some sort of master plan on Bonner’s part?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Abbott said. “Ask him. If you can find him.”

“Or was it a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, you think?”

“I already said I don’t know.”

“Because I noticed those zip ties you were bound to the chair with came from the lab down the hall. I saw a few of them on the floor in there.”

“Yeah, then he must have just grabbed them on his way back here to me.”

“Who let him into the building?”

“I did. We were closed today — tacked the day on to the holiday weekend. I was here alone, catching up on work and he buzzed the gate. I had no idea what he was going to do. I let him in.”

Ballard stepped closer to the couch.

“Let me see your wrists,” she said.

“What?” Abbott exclaimed. “You’re arresting me? For what?”

“I want to see your wrists,” Ballard said calmly.

“Oh,” Abbott replied.

He held out his hands, exposing his wrists below the cuffs of his shirt. Ballard saw no sign of injury or any mark that would have been left if Abbott had been bound for as long as he claimed. Ballard had had that experience herself once and knew what his wrists should look like.

“How come you haven’t asked me my name?” Ballard asked.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Abbott said. “I guess I just thought you would tell me at some point.”

“I’m Ballard. The one you sent Bonner to kill.”

For a moment everything paused and was silent as Abbott registered her words.

“Wait,” he then said. “What are you talking about? I didn’t send anybody anywhere.”

“Come on, Dr. Abbott, this whole thing here, the washcloth and the zip ties, you did that,” Ballard said. “Not a bad try for the time you had, but you’re not fooling any—”

“Are you crazy? Bonner tied me up. If he tried to kill you, then he did that on his own. And he was going to frame me for it. We’re both victims here.”

Ballard could picture how Abbott did it. The gag first, leaving it loose enough for him to be able to clench his teeth. Ballard had noted how loose it was when Bosch moved in to cut it.

Binding the feet to the chair’s legs would come next. Then put a loose loop around one of the arms of the chair, then bind one wrist to the other side before putting his free hand through the loose loop and pulling it tight with his teeth. She glanced at Bosch to see if he was on the same wavelength and he gave her a slight nod. She looked back at Abbott.

“I could sit in that chair and tie myself up like you were in two minutes,” she said. “Your story is shit, Dr. Abbott.”

“You have this wrong. I am a victim here.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“My phone?”

“Yes, your cell phone. Where is it?”

Ballard could tell by his eyes and his reaction that Abbott realized he had missed something, that there was a flaw in his story. He had left something out of the plan.

“It’s over there on the desk,” he said.

Ballard glanced over and saw an iPhone on the desk.

“What about the burner?” she asked.

“What burner?” Abbott said. “There is no burner.”

Ballard looked at Bosch and nodded.

“Call it, Harry,” she said.

Bosch pulled out his cell and called the number that had sent the texts to Bonner’s burner.

“What’s he doing?” Abbott said. “Who’s he calling?”

There was a buzzing sound in the room.

“He’s calling you,” Ballard said.

She followed the sound to the desk. The buzzing kept coming in intervals. She started opening drawers, trying to track it. When she pulled the bottom desk drawer out, the buzzing became louder. There, next to a box of envelopes and a stack of Post-it pads, was a black cell phone matching the one Ballard had found on Bonner.

“You forgot about it, didn’t you?” she asked.

“That’s not mine,” Abbott said. “Bonner — he put it there!”

Ballard didn’t touch the phone because she assumed only Abbott’s prints would be found on it. And if there were no prints, then they would look for DNA. She closed the drawer. It would be a critical piece of evidence and she would alert Ross Bettany to it.

She came back around the desk and walked toward the couch.

“Stand up, Dr. Abbott,” she commanded.

“What for?” Abbott exclaimed. “What’s going on?”

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Javier Raffa,” Ballard said. “And that’s just a start.”