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RODNEY VAN NESS had done Ballard a favor by just throwing on shorts and a shirt earlier, and he was wearing only sandals when he came out the door of his apartment. By the time they had walked down the stairs and into the parking lot, she was able to determine that he was not carrying a weapon. His shirt barely reached the top of his shorts, and it would have been impossible for him to have a gun or a knife tucked into his beltline without her noticing.

That was one of three obstacles out of the way. The other two were getting his permission to record their conversation and advising him of his right not to speak to law enforcement. Ballard was confident in her ability to get the first done. The rights requirement was a different story. Nothing ended the cooperation of someone who was straddling the line between witness and suspect like being told that his words could be used against him in a court of law.

The Triple George Grill was not very new but it was designed to look like it was as old as the Tadich Grill in San Francisco and Musso and Frank's in Hollywood. It was all dark wood and light tile with a long bar running down the middle of the room and private booths with floor-to-ceiling dividers and curtains to ensure the visual and audio privacy of conversations. The grill was located near a former courthouse and was originally meant to accommodate lawyers and their clients during lunch breaks. But that courthouse was closed now; it had been turned into the Mob Museum, dedicated to the history of organized crime—specifically its part in the establishment and rise of Sin City—and law enforcement's attempts to fight it.

They slid into one of the private booths, Ballard and Maddie sitting across from Van Ness. A waitress came and Ballard ordered coffee to start; Maddie asked for ice water, and Van Ness went for a Bloody Mary.

Ballard began casually.

"Van Ness," she said. "There's a Van Ness Avenue in L.A.—is that your family?"

"I wish," Van Ness said. "You'd think I'd be running security at a strip club if it was?"

"But you grew up in Pasadena and went to St. Vincent's, right? That sounds like old-school privilege."

"My mother was a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic. I had to go, but technically I was from the wrong side of the tracks. South Pas. Those arroyo kids had all the privilege, not me."

"You never did any of those genetic-heritage sites—Twenty-Three and Me, that sort of thing—to see if maybe…"

"Nah, not interested. So what's this all about and how do you know I went to St. Vincent's?"

"We're looking for a classmate of yours. But before we start, is it all right if we record this?" Ballard reached into her pocket for her mini-recorder.

"If I'm not a suspect, like you say, why do you need to record it?" Van Ness protested.

"Good question," Ballard said. "New rules. The LAPD has been burned so many times by witnesses recanting what they said, we have a rule now where we have to record every interview. It also helps when we're writing reports to have the recorded version to refer to."

She held up the recorder. Van Ness stared at it but said nothing.

"So, okay?" she asked. "I'll send you a copy so you have it."

"Whatever," Van Ness said. "Go ahead."

Ballard turned on the recorder and checked its small screen to make sure it was working and had enough battery.

"Okay, we're recording," Ballard said. "The time is twelve fourteen p.m. on Wednesday, February twenty-first. This is a conversation between Rodney Van Ness, Officer Madeline Bosch, and myself, Detective Renée Ballard. Now, rule two, we need to advise you of your constitutional rights to—"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Van Ness said. "You say I'm no suspect but now you're telling me about my rights? That's not cool. I'm out of here."

Ballard, who had the outside spot on her side of the booth, reached across the table and put her hand on Van Ness's arm as he was trying to slide out.

"No, would you please wait a minute," she said. "These are the rules we have to play by in the LAPD. Every interview recorded, every witness read their rights. That way everybody is protected. I know it's a pain, but it's just… bureaucracy, okay? I can assure you that you are not a suspect in any crime—and I'm saying that on tape."

She pointed at the recorder on the table.

"So now it's even recorded—you are not a suspect," she said. "But we need to talk to you because you can help us. Please let's just get through this so you can go home and we can get back to L.A."

Van Ness stopped pushing his way out of the booth. He sat back and shook his head as if he was thinking about it. Just then the waitress parted the booth's curtain and placed a Bloody Mary with a tall sprig of celery and a straw in front of him.

Van Ness looked at the drink and then at Ballard.

"So I can end the interview anytime I want?" he asked.

"Anytime," Ballard said.

"Well, I don't like this. Seems kind of sneaky, if you ask me. But go ahead. Let's get this over with."

"Officer Bosch, do you want to do the honors?"

Maddie recited the Miranda warning and Van Ness responded that he understood his rights. Ballard was pleased that they had succeeded in getting through the pre-interview gauntlet.

"Okay, then, let's start," she said. "We are in the middle of an active investigation that is confidential in nature. So we can't share specifics, but we want to ask you about some people you associated with at St. Vincent's."

"Jeez, that was like twenty-five years ago," Van Ness said.

"Do you remember a girl in your class named Gina Falwell?" Ballard asked.

It was just a random name Ballard had pulled from the yearbook. Gina Falwell had no bearing on the Pillowcase Rapist case, but Ballard wanted Van Ness to think that she was on a fishing expedition.

"Can't say that I do," Van Ness replied.

"No memory of her at all?" Ballard asked.

"Nope."

"Okay. We have a yearbook from St. Vincent's with us. All right if I show you Gina's photo to see if it jogs anything loose?"

"You can if you want, but I don't remember her."

Ballard pulled the yearbook out of her bag. She had marked several pages with Post-its as part of her prep for the interview, and she flipped the book open to the page that had Gina Falwell's senior photo, turned it so Van Ness could see it, and tapped the photo.

"Her. You recognize her?"

"Well, I recognize her, yeah. But I didn't know her. What is the… is she, like, dead?"

"We can't really get into that. What about Mallory Richardson, did you know her?"

Van Ness didn't answer. Ballard could see the wheels turning. He bought time by taking a long pull of his Bloody Mary through the straw.

"I think I remember that name," he finally said. "But I can't really place her."

Ballard flipped the pages to another Post-it and showed him a photo of Mallory.

"Remember now?" she asked.

Van Ness nodded.

"Yeah, I remember her," he said. "But we weren't in the same class. She's the one… I heard she died. After graduation."

"Who told you that?" Ballard asked.

"I can't remember. It happened, like, pretty soon after graduation, I think."

"You mean your graduation or hers?"

"Mine."

"How well did you know her?"

"Not very well. It wasn't a big school, and she was… I'd see her around, you know. Like at football games and shit."

Ballard nodded like she understood. Van Ness was cagey with his answers, but he had just crossed a line from using the fogginess of memory as a cover to making a statement that conflicted with common sense. How could he forget who he went to his senior prom with? Would a jury believe that? He admitted to knowing she died but couldn't remember that she had been his date?

In crossing that line, Van Ness had also crossed from witness to person of interest. The next stop was suspect. But Ballard had to continue to play the interview as routine. She flipped to another Post-it.

"Okay, here is the important one," she said. "Victor Best."

Van Ness leaned over to look at the yearbook photo. Ballard tapped the page.

"Yeah, Victor, I knew him," he said.

"Were you friends?" Ballard asked.

"Yeah, we were friends. We hung out."

"Still in touch?"

"No, not really. We've got a twenty-fifth reunion coming up and he sent me an email to see if I was going. You know, stuff like that."

"Are you?"

"What?"

"Going to the reunion."

"No, I'm not into that stuff. I told him no."

"So, where's he live now?"

Van Ness paused and took another pull through the straw.

"So, he's the guy you're trying to find?" he said.

"We want to talk to him, yeah," Ballard said. "Do you know where he is?"

"Last I heard, he lived in Hawaii."

"Where? What island?"

"Oahu… I think."

"What's he do in Hawaii?"

"Runs a restaurant in one of the hotels over there. Last I heard."

"He went there from St. Vincent's and never came back?"

"Well, not right away. He went to school. Then he ended up over there as a chef or something."

"When would that have been? That he went over there."

"I don't know. Twenty years ago? We're not really in touch, not since high school."

"What about you? Did you go to college after high school?"

"Me? Yeah, CSUN."

CSUN was in Northridge—the Valley, where several of the Pillowcase rapes had occurred.

"When did you graduate?" Ballard asked.

"I didn't get a degree, if that's what you mean," Van Ness said. "I left school for a job."

"Doing what?"

"Security at the school."

"CSUN?"

"Yeah, my first security gig."

Ballard nodded. She was confident that they had enough leverage on Van Ness to turn the interview into an interrogation. It was just a matter of how long she could keep him talking once he was confronted. As she was considering how to begin that phase, the waitress ducked through the curtain to see if they were ready to order lunch. Ballard asked her to come back in fifteen minutes.

Before the waitress left, Van Ness held out his empty Bloody Mary glass and asked for another. Ballard looked at the straw still in the glass. The waitress took the glass and left. It was an opportunity Ballard didn't want to miss. She glanced at Maddie, hoping she would get it.

"You know what, I need to hit the restroom," Maddie said. "It was a long drive, lots of coffee."

"Sure," Ballard said. She slid out of the booth quickly, and Maddie moved just as quickly to follow the waitress.

Ballard didn't want to continue asking significant questions without Maddie present, so she detoured into questions about Van Ness's move to Las Vegas and his work for casinos.

"We found you through LinkedIn," she said. "But you haven't updated your résumé."

"I never got a bite through LinkedIn," he said. "So why bother, you know?"

"How long have you been at the Library?"

"Just a couple years. I'm waiting for something to open up on the Strip again."

"Why'd you leave in the first place?"

"A bunch of bullshit is why. I don't want to talk about it."

"That's fine. I was just making conversation until—"

As if on cue, Maddie split the curtain. Ballard slid over to make room. Maddie gave a slight nod that Ballard took to mean she had secured the straw from the Bloody Mary glass.

It was time to put Rodney Van Ness in a corner.