23

23

FROM THE WAREHOUSE , Ballard took Sunset Boulevard over to Angeleno Heights. The two neighborhoods were five minutes apart by car and a century apart in design. Atop a steep hill at the edge of downtown, Angeleno Heights was the oldest unchanged neighborhood in Los Angeles. Only Bunker Hill was older, but that was all glass and concrete now, the future having plowed the past under.

Angeleno Heights was the same as it ever was. The neighborhood had long been designated a historic preservation zone by the city, so the place was frozen in time, its streets lined with pristine examples of the evolving architectures of early Los Angeles. Queen Anne and Victorian homes 150 years old stood side by side with turn-of-the-twentieth-century Craftsman and bungalow masterpieces. Ballard was counting on nothing having changed because of the strict rules regarding any modifications to homes in the neighborhood. She pulled in behind Maddie Bosch's car in front of the house at the Kellam Avenue address Emmitt Thawyer had given, a one-story Craftsman with a driveway running down the left side to a garage in the back.

Maddie was leaning against her car, checking messages on her phone. She put the phone away when Ballard got out.

"You've already done some good detective work," Ballard said. "Let's keep it going. You do the door knock, show your badge, see if you can talk our way in."

"Really?" Maddie said. "But you're the real detective."

"I'll back you up. If needed."

"So, we're looking for information on the man who used to live here, but we're not sure when he moved."

"That's a start. We want to get in, look around, see if anybody knew or remembers Thawyer. And I want to get into the garage in the back."

"The garage? Why?"

"To see if there's a drain."

"Oh. Got it."

As they went up the steps to the wide porch that ran the length of the front of the house, Ballard pulled her phone and opened the Zillow app. She had used the real estate database when looking for her place in Malibu. She plugged in the address of the Kellam Avenue house and scrolled down to the sales history. It showed that the house had not changed hands since 1996. The app did not provide the identity of current or previous owners.

Maddie knocked forcefully on the front door's glass.

"The owner's had it since '96," Ballard said, showing Maddie her phone.

"Got it," Maddie said.

Through the glass they could see a woman slowly approaching. Maddie held up her badge. The woman cautiously opened the door. She was at least eighty, with gray hair, and she was wearing a baggy housedress.

"Yes?" she said.

"Hello, ma'am, we're investigators with the LAPD," Maddie said. "Can we ask you a few questions?"

"Did something happen?"

"Uh, no. We're investigating an old case, a crime that may have happened in this neighborhood. Have you lived here very long?"

"Almost thirty years."

"That's a long time. Did you buy this house?"

"My husband did. He's dead now."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you happen—"

"It was a long time ago."

"I see. Uh, do you happen to know who the previous owner was?"

"Uh… I used to but I can't remember. It's been too long."

"Does the name Emmitt Thawyer sound familiar?"

"Yes, that's it. I remember because we got his mail for a long time after that. My husband used to take it to him."

"Where was that?"

"The retirement home."

"Do you remember which one?"

"I don't know if I ever knew. I remember he'd go over to Boyle Heights to deliver the mail."

"Can I get your name, ma'am?"

"Sally Barnes. My husband was Bruce."

Ballard recognized the name and thought Sally Barnes might have been a midlevel actress at one time. She also thought that Maddie was doing well, but they weren't inside yet. It was doubtful anything would be gained by that, but Ballard wanted to get a sense of the place and maybe learn some information about its previous occupant.

"Do you know if Mr. Thawyer had a family when he lived here?" Maddie asked.

"No, he lived alone," Sally said. "He was a photographer and he traveled for work. It wasn't good for a family."

"Did your husband ever say anything about him after he dropped off the mail?"

"He just said Mr. Thawyer was grateful but said that we didn't need to do it. He said we could throw his mail away. Eventually, we did. I need to get to my chair. Standing isn't good for me. I fall."

"Well, let me help you to your chair."

"You don't have to. I'll be fine. I could move into the motion picture home in the Valley but it's too hot up there. I won't go there till I have to."

"If it's all right with you, can we come in? Our captain tells us that whenever we do a home visit, we should offer to do a security check of the house."

"Well… sure, okay. Can't be too careful these days with all the follow-home robberies you see on the news."

"Exactly."

Sally stepped back and they entered the house. To the right was a living room with a large stone fireplace, to the left a dining room. Bosch put her hand on the old lady's elbow and led her to a chair in the living room.

"Okay, we'll take a look around now," Bosch said.

Ballard and Bosch split up and checked the windows and locks in each of the front rooms as Sally Barnes sat watching.

"What kind of crime was it?" she asked.

"A homicide," Ballard said.

"Here, in this house?" Sally asked.

"We're not sure, but probably not."

"Emmitt Thawyer's dead—if he's your man."

"Yes, we know. How did you know?"

"I think it was Mr. Mann from the historical society who told me. But that was many years ago."

"You don't seem shocked or surprised that Thawyer might be our suspect. Why?"

"Oh, the neighbors. When we first moved in, they told us they were happy to have a regular couple here. They said Mr. Thawyer was a strange man with his cameras and lights. He kept odd hours, sometimes worked all night. They'd see the flashes from the camera, you see."

"From inside the house?"

"Well, of course. I'm going to move back to the kitchen, where I have my work."

"Do you need help?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Okay, and we'll finish our security survey. We won't take long."

Ballard and Bosch quickly moved through the house, checking doors and windows, finally ending up in the kitchen, where Sally Barnes sat at a table with a spread of eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white photos. She was signing them with a felt-tip pen. Ballard stepped over and recognized a much younger Sally Barnes in the photos. They were old publicity shots.

"I thought I recognized you," she said. "Were you in the movies?"

"Television," Barnes said. "I was on Police Woman in a recurring role. I did Baretta, Rockford Files, Barnaby Jones, McMillan they weren't.

"Damn," Ballard said. "And this was looking so good too."

"Well, maybe he had an office or a lab somewhere," Maddie suggested.

"With a concrete floor and an iron-grated drain? I doubt it."

"Well, shit."

"Yeah. Go back in and tell the old lady thanks. Remind her to keep her doors locked. I'll meet you on the street."

"Okay."

They split up; Maddie went to the back door while Ballard walked down the driveway toward the street. She pulled her phone to check for messages. There were none. As she put the phone away she noticed the three trash cans lined up between the house and the driveway. Behind them she saw a casement window. Her first thought was that a flash from there could have been seen by the neighbors next door.

Ballard turned and trotted around the corner to the back of the house. The door was already locked but she saw Maddie in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Barnes. She knocked rapidly on the glass. Maddie opened the door.

"There's a basement," Ballard said. "Mrs. Barnes, where are the stairs to the basement?"

Sally looked up from her autographing.

"Right behind you," she said.

Ballard and Maddie turned. The wall behind them was composed of floor-to-ceiling cabinets. Ballard reached out and pulled on the handle of one of the cabinet doors. It was a false front. The whole assembly opened, top to bottom, revealing a doorway and a set of stairs going down into murky darkness.