22

22

"IS IT HER?" Maddie asked.

"Sure looks like it," Ballard said.

She stacked two film-development pans to make room to spread out the eight photos on the worktable. Their white borders were yellowed despite having been in a file cabinet for decades. They depicted various stages of the defilement, torture, and murder of a young woman. They had not been in chronological order but Ballard was able to put them in order on the table by the appearance of injuries and wounds. The first photo showed the woman before she realized what was about to befall her. She was sitting on a stool, a come-hither smile on her lips, wearing just a bra and panties. The next shot was a close-up of her face, both cheeks slashed from the corners of her mouth, her eyes wild with fear and pain.

It got worse from there. The seventh photo showed her full body lying bloody on a concrete floor next to a drain. She was clearly dead. The injuries to the body matched the autopsy photo long ago stolen from the Black Dahlia files and posted on the internet, an image Ballard had seen online and that was seared into her memory. In the last photo, the body on the concrete had been cleanly severed across the abdomen, blood flowing into the drain.

Nausea hit Ballard, and she put both hands on the worktable and leaned down.

"Are you all right?" Maddie asked.

Ballard didn't answer. She closed her eyes and waited for the feeling to pass.

She finally found her voice. "You see things on this job and can't understand how they could happen," she said.

She straightened up and looked at Maddie.

"Are the other files in there…" she began.

"Yes," Maddie said. "Not as bad, but bad."

"How many?"

"Seven."

"Who the hell was this guy?"

"A monster."

Ballard shook off the fog of horror and put her game face on. "All right, we need to pull those files and take them back to the raft," she said. "We seal this place for now."

"Okay," Maddie said.

"Let's go talk to Mr. Waxman."

Maddie gathered the other file folders from the cabinet. They stepped out of the container, and Maddie handed Ballard the files while she locked the door. Ballard reluctantly leafed through them, seeing photos of the other women in life and death, all of them having met agonizing ends. Ballard was still grappling with the idea that the most famous and hideous killing in Los Angeles history was not a one-time-only crime. The Black Dahlia was just one flower in a black bouquet of murder.

They walked silently to the office, where the man Ballard had seen before was sitting behind a desk stacked with paperwork.

"Mr. Waxman, this is Detective Ballard," Maddie said.

He nodded at the files Ballard held. "Are they real?" Waxman asked.

"You mean the photos?" Maddie asked.

"We're not sure yet," Ballard said quickly. "We'll have them analyzed. But we would like to see any records you have on the person who rented that storage unit."

"Emmitt Thawyer was his name," Waxman said. "But he's dead."

"You must have a file with contact information, billing, things like that," Ballard said.

"Yes, but he didn't pay," Waxman said. "He had a trust fund that paid. I hope it's Hollywood stuff, you know. Fake stuff from the movies."

Ballard realized he might not have recognized the woman in the first file as Elizabeth Short, the Black Dahlia.

"Possibly," she said. "Hopefully. But you must have records of the payments from the trust fund. Can we see those?"

"Okay. I have to go back to storage to get it," Waxman said.

"We can wait," Ballard said.

Waxman stood up and left the office.

"Who did you say owned this place?" Ballard asked.

"Nancy Porter," Maddie said.

"We'll need an address for her too."

"I already have it."

"From Waxman?"

"Yes, I thought I—we—might need it, so I got it from him after he showed me the storage unit."

"That was smart. Maybe we'll go see her after this. If you have time."

"I'm in. This is so much more interesting than patrol."

For a moment Ballard considered warning her about vicarious trauma but decided not to get into it now.

Waxman came back a few minutes later with a file; he handed it to Ballard and went back behind his desk. The file contained several documents, starting with a yellowed information sheet apparently filled out by Emmitt Thawyer and dated November 1, 1966. It listed a home address on Kellam Avenue.

"Kellam Avenue," Maddie said. "That's in Angeleno Heights. I remember when I was a kid, my dad and I used to drive around in there and look at the old houses. I love that neighborhood."

"Well, it looks like a serial killer might have lived there," Ballard said.

"He was probably there when we drove by his house."

"Maybe."

The information sheet also included Thawyer's driver's license number and a birth date of January 7, 1924.

"He just had a birthday last month," Ballard said. "He'd be a hundred years old."

Ballard did the math and determined that Thawyer would have been twenty-three when Elizabeth Short was abducted and murdered. It was a little young for a serial killer, but maybe she was his first victim.

"You think he did that on purpose?" Maddie said. "Put enough money in his trust fund to pay for storage till he was a hundred?"

"Who knows," Ballard said. "But I like the way you're thinking."

Ballard didn't know if telling Maddie she reminded her of her father would be taken as a compliment or not. She kept it to herself and went back to the documents in hand.

The rest of the pages in the file were annual invoices stamped PAID with a handwritten date of payment. All the dates were in late October or the first day of November, corresponding with when Thawyer first rented the storage unit.

"Mr. Waxman, we're going to need to keep this file for a while," Ballard said.

"It's yours," Waxman said. "I'm done with it."

"Do you speak to Mrs. Porter often?"

"No, we don't need to speak. I run the business for her and she's happy being hands-off."

"How old is she?"

"I don't know. Very old. She inherited this business from her father. He did what I do—ran the business. She did too, but then she got tired and turned to me."

"Did you tell her about this—what you saw in the unit?"

"I told her, yes."

"Did she remember Mr. Thawyer?"

"She wasn't sure. She said the name was familiar but she couldn't remember the man."

"How about you, Mr. Waxman. Do you remember him?"

"I don't believe we ever met."

"Did you tell anyone else about what you saw in that storage container?"

"Only Mrs. Porter."

"Please tell no one else, Mr. Waxman."

"Believe me, it's not a story I would enjoy sharing. I saw the photos. I'll never forget them. Horrible."

Outside, as they walked to their cars, Ballard carried the files. Her phone buzzed. It was Olmstead finally calling back.

"I need to take this in private," she said to Maddie. "Let's go to Kellam first. I'll meet you in front of the house where Thawyer lived."

"See you there," Maddie said.

Ballard took the call as she slipped behind the wheel of the Defender and put the files on the seat next to her.

"Gordon, where you been?"

"Sorry I haven't been able to call back till now. Have you talked to Bosch?"

Ballard knew she would get more information if she acted like she had none. "No, what's going on?" she said.

"We're set for Saturday," Olmstead said.

"Where?"

"Same place Bosch met the guy before."

"You'll have it squared away?"

"Totally. We already have a tactical team on Dehaven. We'll be watching every move he makes till the exchange."

"What about Harry?"

"What about him?"

"I'm worried that he's not an agent."

"What's that mean?"

"He can't get hurt, Gordon. He's not expendable."

"I should be offended you'd say that, but I'll let it go. I know he's not expendable, Renée. But we've got it covered. He'll be fine."

"You're not making him wear a wire, right?" It was the most dangerous part of undercover work. Things could easily go wrong with a wire.

"Not a body wire. We'll rig his car. He'll have the guns in the back, and that's where the bug will be. If he senses danger, he's got a go word. But he'll be fine."

"I told you they're not planning to pay for the guns."

"We know that. But this will be in a busy parking lot. They won't want to make a scene."

"How can you be sure? I don't like this, Gordon. You have Dehaven on murder and sedition. You don't need more charges."

"Look, Renée, it's not about the charges on him. He's not in this alone if he needs four machine guns. We let him take the guns back to the group, then we get the group. You know how it works. The weapons are like ant bait. He takes it back and poisons the nest. We grab him and all the others involved."

Ballard knew the strategy and knew it was right, but too many things could go wrong.

"I still don't like it," she said.

"Well, Bosch does," Olmstead said. "He's agreed and he's ready to go. He wanted to go tomorrow, in fact, but we need another day for the setup. We're going to have cameras hidden all over that lot. We'll have snipers on the roof of the condo across from it. Bosch says the word and they'll drop Dehaven in his tracks."

"Where will you be?"

"We'll have a command post up on Ocean. A van. It looks like an Amazon delivery van."

"I'll be there too."

"Renée, you can't do that."

"I'm there or I'm parking in the lot where I can put eyes on Bosch. Your choice."

"You want this to go down, right? You want your badge back?"

"Fuck my badge. I don't want Bosch to get hurt and I don't think you guys really care about him."

"And, what, you being in the command post is going to keep him safe? Your logic doesn't add—"

"I'll be able to make sure you guys don't screw up."

There was a long silence, and when Olmstead's voice came back, it was angry but tight and controlled.

"Fine," he said. "We'll make room in the CP for you."

"Thank you, Gordon," Ballard said. "What time?"

"We set the meet for oh-eight-hundred. Before the parking lot gets too crowded with civilians but still busy enough to get our cars and people in there. We'll be on-site at six."

"Then so will I. Have you picked up Lionel Boden?"

Olmstead had said that Boden had to be taken out of circulation to ensure he didn't reach out to Dehaven and warn him. After using Boden's phone to set up the initial meeting between Dehaven and Bosch, Ballard had deleted the contact from the device and allowed Boden to return to the Eldorado. She knew it would be bad for business and his personal safety for him to warn Dehaven, since it was Boden who had snitched him off. But Olmstead had said that wasn't good enough for operational integrity. Boden had to be kept under wraps.

"Yes, we quietly picked him up and moved him to our luxurious accommodations downtown," Olmstead said. "We'll keep him till this goes down. And probably then some."

"Good," Ballard said. "What else?"

"You covered it all. But one other thing."

"What?"

"Thank you for dropping this in my lap. After we take these guys down, are you sure you don't want to be there when we hold the press conference? We're happy to share the credit."

"I appreciate that, Gordon, but no, thanks. I'll just see you Saturday at six."

"You got it."

Ballard disconnected and started the engine.