21
21
BALLARD WAS EARLY pulling into the parking lot of Echo Park Storage. She thought about her activities at the You-Store-It in Santa Monica. The coincidence of it was not lost on her. Unrelated but similar things seemed to be happening in twos.
She parked and left the car running while she made another call to the number Gordon Olmstead had told her was his direct line. As before, it went straight to voicemail.
"It's Renée," Ballard said. "Again. Just wondering what's happening. Give me a call."
She disconnected. She wondered if her tone sounded too pleading. There was a hollow feeling building in her chest as she second-guessed herself for bringing Olmstead and the FBI into the Thomas Dehaven investigation. She tried to push the feeling aside by calling Harry.
He answered right away.
"Just checking to see if you've heard anything from Olmstead."
"Yeah, he called a little while ago. He said they want to set up the gun buy for Saturday morning."
Ballard was immediately annoyed that Bosch was in the loop but she wasn't. At the same time, she understood that Bosch had to be in the loop since he would be the tethered goat they'd use as bait in taking down Dehaven.
"Are you good with that?" she asked.
"The sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned," Bosch said. "But they need the time to set it all up and pick their spots."
"Where is it going down?"
"They want the same place the first meeting was at, the parking lot at the beach. I told them Saturday morning, that lot will fill up fast. It's a beach day for people. But they like that because, you know, they can get their people in there in cars and whatnot."
"I get it. So have you texted the arrangements to Dehaven?"
"No, Olmstead and the Bureau people have sort of hijacked the texting. There's a way they can do it without my phone."
"Right. So when was the last time you talked to Olmstead or anybody with the Bureau?"
"Olmstead told me all of this a couple hours ago. He'll probably call you once they have it set up."
"Are they getting the plugged minis for you?"
"He said they'll have them. They want the deal to go down because it will be an added case against him. Dehaven will never breathe free air again."
"You'd think killing his ex would be enough for that, but I get it. They want more federal charges. They want to bury him in that supermax out in Colorado."
Ballard saw a car glide into the open space next to her. It was Maddie Bosch.
"Okay, well, it looks like Olmstead doesn't have me on the need-to-know list," Ballard said. "So let me know what you know."
"I will," Bosch said. "This is your case whether you want credit for it or not."
"Not anymore. But that's the way it goes. Talk to you later, Harry."
"Wait. I was going to call you. Did Maddie start with the unit today?"
"She did, yeah. It was good. I think she's going to fit right in."
"Okay. Good."
"She told me she was going to call you today to tell you."
"She hasn't yet, but good."
"Yeah. See ya, Harry."
"Bye."
Bosch clicked off and Ballard killed the engine. She put her phone in her pocket as she got out. Maddie was waiting behind her car, checking her phone.
"So," Ballard said. " Storage Wars, huh? I would have had you down as a Kardashians girl."
"What? Kardashians? No . And I don't think I've ever watched Storage Wars either."
Storage Wars was a reality-television show in which people bid at auction on storage units whose renters were more than three months delinquent in their payments. Under California law, the contents of these storage units could be discarded or put up for auction by the business owner. The show was basically a treasure hunt, with winning bidders hoping to find valuable contents in the storage units they bought.
Maddie had explained to Ballard that she had a unit at Echo Park Storage that she'd rented when she moved into her boyfriend's apartment and had to store the furniture and other belongings from her place. She wanted to keep her furniture in case the relationship didn't work out. One day while on her way to work, she had stopped by her unit to retrieve a lamp she wanted to bring to her new home. She was not in uniform but had her badge on her belt. The manager saw the badge and told her he was cleaning out a storage unit that was delinquent on payments and had found some disturbing things inside. He wanted Maddie to take a look. What Maddie found in the unit made her rent it on the spot and pay the manager five hundred dollars for its contents. Maddie had been going through those contents in her spare time. She decided to volunteer for the Open-Unsolved Unit after opening a file labeled Betty .
"Well," Ballard said. "Let's see what you've got."
The storage facility was an old brick warehouse that had somehow withstood the test of time and earthquakes. Ballard guessed that it had once been a manufacturing plant of some kind. She could see where windows had been removed and walled, creating a hodgepodge facade of cinder block, concrete, and brick.
"How old is this place?" Ballard asked.
"Built almost a hundred years ago," Maddie said. "I asked the guy who runs it—Mr. Waxman. He said they originally made parts here for the Ford plant that was down on Terminal Island. In the sixties they moved in all these old shipping containers, and it became a storage facility. Most of the containers have separating walls inside, so you get half a container. There are doors on both ends."
"The guy who rented the unit we're talking about—how long did he have it?"
"Since the sixties—he supposedly got it then and kept it."
"And what happened to him?"
"He died, like, seven years ago but the rent had always been paid through a trust fund. It was in his will to keep it going, and it paid for the year ahead every November first. But I guess the money ran out, and last November no payment came. After three months, Mr. Wax-man went in to clean it out and I happened to come by that day."
Another coincidence, Ballard thought. They entered through a garage door that had been rolled open. Inside, the large space once used for manufacturing was filled with freestanding rows of shipping containers with an office at the front of one of the rows. Lights hung from the rafters above, but there was not enough illumination to keep back the shadows. The place felt eerie to Ballard. Ominous.
"It's back here," Maddie said. As they passed the office, Maddie waved through a window to a man sitting behind a desk.
"Is that the guy who told you about it?" Ballard asked.
"Yeah, Mr. Waxman," Maddie said.
"He's not the owner?"
"No, he's just the manager. The owner is an old lady who lives up by the Greek. He told me she might remember the guy who rented it."
"Aren't you creeped out by this place?"
"Definitely. But it's close by and cheap. I don't spend much time here—I mean, I didn't before this thing came up."
"Tell me about the guy who rented the unit."
"Emmitt Thawyer. I ran him through our databases and got nothing."
"Sawyer?"
"No, it's like Sawyer but with a T-h . Not a lot of Thawyers out there. I googled him but couldn't find anything. Mr. Waxman says Mrs. Porter—she's the owner—ran the place before she hired him and probably met Emmitt Thawyer. Back in the day, he was some kind of photographer."
The individual storage units had not been updated in years. Rather than roll-up metal doors like they had at the You-Store-It in Santa Monica, these units had the original shipping container double doors secured with locking bars and padlocks. Maddie stopped in front of a door marked 17 and pulled a key ring off her belt.
"This is it," she said.
Maddie removed a thick padlock, pulled the locking bar up, and swung open the heavy metal doors. The container was pitch-black inside. Maddie reached in and flipped a switch, and a line of caged bulbs down the center of the ceiling lit the space. Ballard was expecting a hoarder's pile of junk and debris, but the container was neatly ordered with a row of metal file cabinets on one side and old photography equipment on the other. There were light stands and wooden-legged tripods. At the back of the space was a worktable on which stood pans, beakers, and other film-developing equipment.
"At first I thought it was like a meth lab or something," Maddie said. "But it's a photo lab. And these file cabinets are full of negatives and photos, contracts for jobs, and invoices. It looks like he did a lot of work for catalogs, shooting products and things like that. It's all legit work except for what's in the last cabinet. That was the one Mr. Waxman opened."
"Let's see."
"It's pretty bad."
Maddie reached down to the bottom drawer of a file cabinet but Ballard stopped her.
"Wait," she said. "Did you wear gloves when you went through this place before?"
"Uh, no," Maddie said. "Sorry."
"That's okay. You didn't know what you'd find. Here." Ballard reached into her pocket for latex gloves. "I only have one pair," she said. "Let's each put a glove on."
They did, and then Maddie opened the file drawer. It made a sharp screech, which somehow seemed appropriate to Ballard.
The drawer was filled with hanging files with the names of women on the tabs. They were alphabetized and the first one said Betty . Maddie pulled it out with a gloved hand and gave it to Ballard, who opened it on the worktable.
The file contained eight black-and-white photos, several showing the body of a woman who had been horribly tortured and killed. In an instant Ballard recognized Elizabeth Short, the Black Dahlia.
"Oh my God," she said under her breath.
"Yeah," Maddie said.