46

46

EVERYONE ON THE team had already fulfilled their weekly time commitments, but Ballard arrived at Ahmanson to find Hatteras at her desk. Hatteras could always be counted on for three to five days a week, but today Ballard had asked her to come in. She knew Hatteras had worked into the night Wednesday to locate Victor Best, Andrew Bennett, and Taylor Weeks. Ballard had been too tired after returning from Vegas to take her report and asked for a morning meeting instead.

"Colleen, sorry I'm late," Ballard said. "I got hung up at the lab."

"You took in the swab from Van Ness?" Hatteras asked.

Ballard put her bag down at her desk.

"I did," she said. "I'm going to go up and get coffee, then we can talk. You want a cup?"

"No, I'm good," Hatteras said.

Ballard opened a drawer at her desk and pulled out a coffee mug. It was a memento from her days in the Robbery-Homicide Division. Printed on it was a familiar slogan: LAPD HOMICIDE—OUR DAY BEGINS WHEN YOUR DAY ENDS.

She headed up to the coffee room on the second floor. While she was pouring, she got a call from Captain Gandle. Reluctantly, she accepted it. Any call with the captain these days felt adversarial.

This one started off no different.

"Ballard, I thought I'd have a report from you on Vegas in my email."

"Sorry, Captain. We got back late yesterday and I was tired. I'm at the office now and I'll be writing it up this morning. Right after an interview I'm in the middle of."

She hoped the lie would keep the conversation short.

"Good," Gandle said. "I want to see what you've got."

"You'll get it before lunch," Ballard promised.

There was a silence, but Gandle didn't hang up. Ballard guessed that another shoe was about to drop.

"Is there something else, Cap?" she asked.

"Yes, I need to talk to you about something," Gandle said. "Something that I don't want to blow up in my face."

"What? Something in Vegas? Did Van Ness file a complaint?"

"No, nothing from Vegas. I got a call from a reporter at the Times first thing today. The FBI shoot-out at the beach—they won't let that go because they know Harry Bosch was somehow involved."

"Okay. What's that got—"

"The reporter also sent me a video that was taken on an iPhone by one of the bystanders—some kid who was playing roller hockey. He wants me to ID the woman Bosch is talking to at the crime scene tape. He hugs her and puts something in her pocket. That woman looks a lot like you, Ballard, and I want to know what the fuck is going on."

Ballard was stunned silent.

"Talk to me, Ballard," Gandle said. "Right now."

"Uh, I can't at the moment, Captain," Ballard said. "I'm in the middle of an interview. But I will."

"When?"

"Uh, soon. I just need to finish this. How about I go downtown to see you?"

She was trying to buy time to come up with an explanation he'd accept.

"All I can say is this better not be something that detonates in my hands, Ballard."

"Don't worry, sir, it's not," Ballard said. "But could you send me the video? I'd like to see it before we talk."

"I'll send it. And I'll see you today, Ballard. Today."

"Yes, sir."

Ballard disconnected. She was in a fog and felt a little dizzy. There was a single table in the coffee room with two chairs. She sat down, put her elbows on the table, and ran her hands through her hair. She had to come up with something to explain why she was in the video but could think of nothing to say other than the truth.

"Shit, shit, shit," she said to herself.

She felt a pit opening in her chest. It grew wider as she realized that she had recovered her badge only to possibly lose it again—permanently.