The Night Fire

52

Ballard couldn’t seem to move on the bed without setting off searing pain that ran like branches of lightning over the left side of her body. She was being treated at White Memorial in Boyle Heights. It was the second morning after the events at California Plaza and she was out of the intensive care unit. The Black Widow had only nicked her axillary artery with her curving blade, but nevertheless Ballard had suffered a major loss of blood. The EMTs had contained it and then an ER doctor had sutured her damaged blood vessels in a four-hour surgery. It was just that now her left arm felt like it had been strapped to her body with bungee cords and any little movement set off pain like she had never felt in her life.

“Stop moving.”

She turned her head to see Bosch enter the room.

“Easier said than done,” she said. “Did you have trouble getting in this time?”

“No,” Bosch said. “I’m finally on the Approved list.”

“I told them you were my uncle.”

“I’ll take that over grandfather.”

“I should’ve thought of that. So, what’s the news? She’s still in the wind?”

Bosch sat down on a chair next to the bed. There was a table to his left crowded with flower vases and stuffed animals and cards.

“The Black Widow’s in the wind,” he said. “But at least they know who they’re looking for. They got a print off one of the cartridges in the gun she left and IDed her — they think. Turns out the FBI’s been looking for her for a while for some wet work she did in Miami.”

“They have her name?”

“Catarina Cava.”

“What’s that, Italian?”

“No, Cuban, actually.”

“How did she get hooked up with Batman?”

“You forget, I’m not part of the club anymore. People from your department aren’t telling me jack. What I know I got from a fed who interviewed me and is part of the task force they’re putting together on this. The bureau, Vegas Metro, LAPD. He told me Butino and his people picked up on her when they had a piece of work that was mutually beneficial. Then she became his go-to. Which in turn brought her to the attention of Michaelson & Mitchell.”

“They have Michaelson?”

“Yeah, they grabbed him at Van Nuys Airport. He was about to take a private jet to Grand Cayman. Now he’s trying to deal his way out, laying everything off on Manley. Of course, Manley’s dead and his computer was purged before he went off the roof. But I told them what Cava told me: that Michaelson set up the hit on Manley and me.”

“Well, I hope they put Michaelson away for a hundred years.”

“It’s a dance. He’ll eventually realize he has to reveal all if he wants any shot at a break.”

“Does your FBI source have any idea about what Manley’s hold was on Michaelson? Like why they didn’t get rid of him sooner?”

“They just assume he knew too much. They believe they’re going to find other cases where Michaelson used Cava. Judge Montgomery wasn’t the first hit. In fact, that may have been a rogue operation — Manley making use of their in-house hitter without Michaelson’s approval. But what was he going to do? Fire him? He knew too much. Michaelson was probably going to wait for Herstadt to be convicted, the case to die down a little bit, and then he would make his move on Manley.”

“But you came along and sped it all up.”

“Something like that.”

Bosch absentmindedly picked up a stuffed dog that had been sent to Ballard with a get-well-soon card.

“That’s from my friend Selma Robinson,” Ballard said. “The deputy D.A. on the Hilton case.”

“Nice,” Bosch said.

He put the dog back. Ballard looked at the crowded table. It seemed odd to receive bouquets and get-well cards after being slashed with an assassin’s blade — there was no specialty card for that from Hallmark. But the table and just about every other horizontal surface in the room seemed to be covered with flowers, cards, stuffed animals, or something else from well-wishers, most of them fellow cops. It was an odd contradiction to receive so much attention and so many get-wells from a department she thought had turned its back on her long ago. The doctor told her that more than thirty cops had showed up the night of her surgery to donate blood for her. He gave her a list of names. Many were from the late show but most were complete strangers to her. When she read the names, a tear had gone down her cheek.

Bosch seemed to understand the currents that were going through her. He gave her a moment before asking, “So, Olivas been by?”

“Yes, actually,” Ballard said. “This morning. Probably felt he had to.”

“He’s had a good week.”

“Damn right. First he gets credit on the Hilton case. Now all of this. He’s going to clear Montgomery, Banks, and Manley. The guy’s going four for four.”

“That’s a hell of an average. All because of you.”

“And you.”

“Maybe it’ll get you off the late show.”

“No, I don’t want that. I’d still never work for him. Olivas. And if not RHD, where am I going to go? Besides, after midnight is when it all happens in this town. I like the dark hours. As soon as they let me, I’m going back.”

Bosch smiled and nodded. He had known that would be her answer.

“What about you?” Ballard asked. “What are you going to do now?”

“Today’s my day for visiting,” Bosch said. “I’m going to go see Margaret Thompson next.”

Ballard nodded.

“Are you going to tell her about John Hilton?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Bosch said. “Not sure she needs to know all that.”

“Maybe she already does.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it. I don’t think she would have called me in the first place if she’d known. I don’t think she would have done that to me, you know? Led me to finding out about him.”

Bosch was silent after that and Ballard waited a moment before speaking.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know he was important to you. And to have this... truth come out...”

“Yeah, well...,” Bosch said. “True heroes are hard to come by, I guess.”

They were silent another moment and Bosch wanted to change the subject.

“When I went there last, to her house,” he said, “you know, to look through his office — before we knew why he took the murder book... anyway, I found a box in his closet where he kept old cases. Not full murder books, but copies of some chronos, reports, and summaries from old cases.”

“That he had worked?” Ballard asked.

“Yeah, from his own cases. And there was one — it was a sixty-day summary from a case I had worked with him. This girl rode her bike under the Hollywood freeway... and then she disappeared. A few days later she was found dead. Murdered. And we never cleared it.”

“What was her name?”

“Sarah Freelander.”

“When was the murder?”

“Nineteen eighty-two.”

“Wow, that’s old. And never solved?”

Bosch shook his head.

“I’m going to ask Margaret for that box,” he said.

Ballard could tell that Bosch’s eyes were seeing the case from long ago. Then he seemed to come back to the present. He brightened and smiled at her.

“Okay, then,” he said. “I guess I’ll let you rest. Any idea when you’ll be out of here?”

“They’re just worried about infection now,” Ballard said. “Otherwise, it’s all good. So I think they’re going to watch it another day and then let me go. Two days at the most.”

“Then I’ll be back tomorrow. You need anything?”

“I’m good. Unless you want to go take my dog for a walk.”

Bosch paused.

“I didn’t think so,” Ballard said, smiling.

“I’m not really good with animals,” Bosch said. “I mean, did you want—”

“Don’t worry about it. Selma has been checking on her and taking her out.”

“Then good. That’s perfect.”

Bosch stood up, squeezed her right hand, and then headed toward the door.

“Sarah Freelander,” Ballard said.

Bosch stopped and turned around.

“If you work that case, I work it with you.”

Bosch nodded.

“Yeah,” Bosch said. “That’s a deal.”

He started to leave the room. Ballard stopped him again.

“Actually, Harry, I need one more thing from you.”

He came back to the bed.

“What?”

“Can you take a picture of all the flowers and stuffed animals? I want to remember all of this.”

“Sure.”

Bosch pulled his phone and stepped to one side so he could get the whole display of good wishes in the frame.

“You want to be in it?” he asked.

“God, no,” Ballard said.

Bosch took three shots from slightly different angles, then opened the camera app on the phone to select the best shot to send her. As he clicked on the “All Photos” option, he saw the shot he had taken while searching Clayton Manley’s office. He had forgotten about it in all the activity that had occurred later. It was a photo of a document on Manley’s computer before it had been purged.

The document was named TRANSFER and contained only a thirteen-digit number followed by the letters G.C. Bosch realized now that G.C. might stand for Grand Cayman.

“Harry, something wrong?” Ballard asked.

“Uh, no,” Bosch said. “Something’s right.”