48

48

NO VIDEO FROM the roller-hockey player had come in from the captain. Ballard tried to push the problem she was facing with him out of her mind as she pulled her chair around the raft and sat down next to Hatteras.

"Finally," she said. "Colleen, show me what you've got on our boys from St. Vincent's."

"Well, good and bad news," Hatteras said. "I'm pretty sure I located all three. The bad news is that Weeks is in Hollywood Forever."

"He's dead?"

"Died in a car accident three years ago."

"Where?"

"He hit a tree on Los Feliz Boulevard driving home after a concert at the Greek. I found a story in the Pasadena Star-News. I guess because he grew up there and had sort of made good in Hollywood, they ran a story."

"What did he do in Hollywood?"

"He was a producer of independent films. None that I ever heard of, but stuff that made the festival circuits."

"Can you pull up the story? I'd like to read it."

"I have a printout."

Hatteras opened a file folder and took out a sheet of paper. Ballard scanned the story and noted that there had been a female passenger in the car who survived but sustained critical injuries. Her name was not given in the article. At that time, the accident was under investigation by the LAPD traffic division.

"Then there's this," Hatteras said.

She handed Ballard another document from the folder, a printout of a four-page lawsuit against the estate of Taylor Weeks filed by Amanda Sheridan, the passenger in the car crash. Her lawsuit said Weeks was driving under the influence of alcohol and Ecstasy at the time of the crash and had refused Sheridan's repeated requests to pull over and let her drive. According to the lawsuit, an angry Weeks yelled, "How about if I pull over here?" and drove intentionally into an oak tree ten feet off the road, killing himself and seriously injuring Sheridan.

"This is good stuff, Colleen," Ballard said. "They would have drawn blood during the autopsy, and it should still be at the coroner's office if this lawsuit is still active."

She flipped to the front page of the lawsuit to check the court stamp.

"Filed in September of '22," she said. "It's probably still winding its way through the courts. I'm pretty sure we'll be able to get his DNA."

"I was hoping that would be the case," Hatteras said.

"I have to go downtown in a bit. I'll go by the coroner's office and see what they have."

"You have to see the captain?"

"Unfortunately."

"Is something wrong? I feel like there is."

"Everything's fine, Colleen. Nothing for you to worry about."

Hatteras was the last person Ballard wanted to confide in about her predicament. She changed the subject.

"What about Bennett and Best? You found them?"

"Yes. Van Ness had the wrong island—Victor Best is currently the head chef of a restaurant in Kona on the Big Island. I don't have his home address but I have the restaurant's."

She started typing on her computer.

"Good," Ballard said. "Did you look for any news stories on serial rapists over there?"

"I did but didn't find anything. But here is the restaurant."

A website for a restaurant called Olu Olu came up on the screen. It showed outdoor seating with a stunning ocean view. Hatteras opened a pull-down menu and clicked on Who We Are . A photo and bio of the restaurant manager appeared. She scrolled down to the next photo, and Ballard was looking at a man wearing a white chef's jacket and smiling warmly at the camera.

"That's Victor Best," Hatteras said. "Head chef and kitchen manager."

Ballard leaned in to read the two-paragraph bio of Best.

"‘Nearly twenty years of experience in restaurants in Hawaii,'" she read out loud. "If that's true, he would've been over there when the last attack occurred here. Van Ness said the same thing."

"So we scratch him off the list?" Hatteras asked.

"Not yet. We still need to confirm. Bios like this are exaggerated. And Van Ness was wrong about the island, so he could be wrong about the timing too."

"Got it."

Ballard stared at the photo of Best. He had a shaved head, a wide smile, and a deep tan. She could see how the kid in the yearbook photo had grown into the man on the screen. The eyes were the same, a deep brown so dark that she could barely see the ring around each iris. She wondered if she was staring at the eyes of a rapist-murderer.

Hatteras interrupted her thoughts by asking, "Did you ever live in Kona?"

"Uh, no, I never lived on the Big Island. I lived in Maui, and I went to J-school in Oahu."

"J-school?"

"Journalism. I was a reporter for a while before I was a cop."

"Interesting. I didn't know that."

The mention of her past suddenly gave Ballard an idea for how she might be able to learn when Best left California for Hawaii.

"Colleen, how did you find him?" she asked.

"It was easy," Hatteras said. "I just googled ‘Victor Best Hawaii,' and this page on the restaurant site came up. I wish it were always this easy."

Ballard kept her plan for Best to herself and moved on with the report from Hatteras.

"Okay, what did you find on Andrew Bennett?"

"It was not as easy with him. As you can imagine, there are a lot of Andrew Bennetts out there. Again, based on what Maddie said Van Ness told you, I made Orange County one of my parameters and found four Andrew Bennetts in the county. I went through them and locked in on one down in Laguna Beach. He works for a real estate firm that has bios of its sales reps on its website. His bio says he was born in California, and then I just did a comparison to the yearbook. Take a look."

Hatteras pulled up a photo of a smiling Andrew "Andy" Bennett on a real estate firm's website, then put up next to it an enlarged photo she had scanned in of the Andy Bennett from the yearbook. There was no doubt that the agent was the Andy Bennett who had graduated in 1999 from St. Vincent's in Pasadena. Unlike Victor Best, who had lost hair and added sun wrinkles around the eyes, Bennett looked like he had found the fountain of youth or a good plastic surgeon. There were no wrinkles, and he still had a full head of hair. Ballard realized the style had not changed either. His jet-black hair was still parted cleanly on the left. He was smiling broadly and standing by a SOLD sign in front of a house.

"I wonder how old this photo is," Ballard said. "He looks like he's about thirty."

"I know," Hatteras said. "I tried to find more photos but struck out. The California Department of Real Estate database has no record of complaints against him, and he's been licensed since 2007."

"I'll run his DMV and hopefully we come up with a home address. But shoot me his office address on a text."

"I already ran his DMV records and got the address. I'll send it to you."

"How did you run his DMV?"

"I used your password."

"Colleen, how do you have my password?"

"Anders gave it to me."

"What?"

"I think it's yours. That's what he said."

"This can't be happening. Look, whatever he gave you, do not use it again. You understand? That could bring the whole unit down. I'll talk to Anders, but don't use it anymore."

"Okay, sorry. I didn't know it was such a big deal. The other day you had me run a check on your screen because you were still logged in. I didn't see the difference. I just thought you gave it to him."

"No, I didn't. He hacked it and I'll take care of that with him. What you need to know is that the department is very serious about unauthorized users running DMV checks."

"Like what you asked me to do the other day?"

Ballard was getting exasperated.

"Look, that was different," she said. "And I'm not going to argue about it with you. Just don't do it anymore. It's actually illegal. It could get both you and me in trouble."

"Okay, fine," Hatteras said. "No more."

"Send me Bennett's address and then at least it will look legal."

"Will do. Are you going to go down to Laguna to see him?"

"Eventually. Probably. Tell you what, see if you can find out if he has any open houses this weekend."

"Ooh, that would be cool. You posing as a potential buyer to observe him. Before he knows you're a cop."

"Maybe."

Ballard knew what was coming next and was not wrong.

"If you go down, can I tag along?" Hatteras asked. "Wait, don't answer. I know it's a no. Never mind."

Ballard was relieved that she didn't have to lower the boom one more time. Hatteras was self-editing.

"Colleen, you might want to think about taking a break and going home," she said. "You've been here every day this week. I really don't want you to burn out. You're too valuable to the team."

Ballard left Hatteras with that to think about and rolled her chair back to her desk, where she saw her coffee, now cold, waiting for her. That was two cups fallen by the wayside. Before she went upstairs for another refill she might actually drink, she checked her email.

First in the queue was the email that had just come in from Hatteras with Andrew Bennett's DMV record. Though he sold homes in pricey Laguna Beach, he lived in Laguna Hills, a suburb west of Laguna Beach with lower housing costs because of its distance from the Pacific. The driver's license had been issued three years ago, and the photo was of the same man in the one Hatteras had pulled up of Bennett in front of the SOLD sign. Bennett still looked younger than his years.

After writing down the pertinent information in a notebook she kept on her desk, Ballard signed in to the California DMV database. Through the interagency portal, she was able to pull up Victor Best's Hawaii driver's license records. These showed that Best had not been licensed in the state until 2008, with an address first in Oahu and then on the Big Island in subsequent renewals. But Best not getting his Hawaii driver's license until after the Pillowcase Rapist's L.A. rampage had stopped didn't necessarily mean anything. He could have moved there years earlier and simply waited until his California license expired before getting the Hawaii license. The information was useful but it didn't move the needle on Best. Ballard needed to know more precisely when he had left California for Hawaii. Ballard was also aware that no matter when Best moved to Hawaii, it was not a solid alibi. He could have gone back and forth between Hawaii and California and committed the Pillowcase crimes.

To help narrow his location history down, she pulled up the website of the Pasadena Star-News and scrolled through its pages until she saw the byline of a reporter named Claudia Gimble. She didn't need to write the name down.

Ballard straightened up to look over the divider and saw that Hatteras was still at her desk. She didn't want to make her next call with Colleen eavesdropping, so she stood up, coffee mug in hand. "You're still here," she said.

"I'm going to go," Hatteras said. "Just finishing up a few things."

Ballard held up her mug.

"I'm going up for a refill, and then I'm heading downtown. So I'll see you tomorrow or maybe even Monday."

"What about Laguna Beach?"

"I haven't decided on Laguna Beach. Going down there and back would take up a whole day and I'm not sure I want to invest that kind of time yet. There's still a lot to do here. I'll let you know when I go."

"Okay, fine."

"I'll see you, Colleen."

"See you."

Ballard went up to the coffee room and found the urn empty. She had to brew a fresh batch. By the time she got back to the unit, there was no sign of Hatteras. She was finally alone. She sat down at her desk, blocked the ID on her phone, and called Olu Olu in Kona. It was three hours earlier in Hawaii, but Ballard was hopeful that as head chef and kitchen manager of a restaurant that was open for lunch and dinner, Best would be there.

The call was answered by a woman who said that Victor was in his office and that she'd put the call through. He answered right away.

"This is Victor."

Ballard quickly put her phone on speaker and pulled out her mini-recorder. As she spoke she started a new recording.

"Hello, Mr. Best. This is Claudia Gimble with the Pasadena Star-News in California. I was wondering if you had a few minutes for an interview."

"Interview? For what?"

"As you probably remember from growing up here in Pasadena, we're a small community paper and we're doing a story on the twenty-fifth reunion of the St. Vincent's class of '99. Would this be a good time to ask you a few questions?"

"That's a story? Or is this some kind of a prank?"

"No, sir, not a prank. It's a feature, a where-are-they-now story, which people love to read. And I wanted to talk to you because you living all the way over in Hawaii makes you one of the most far-flung and exotic members of the class of '99. My first question is, what made you make the move to Hawaii?"

"Look, I'm not sure I want to be involved in this… feature. Who else have you talked to from the class?"

Ballard recited three names of female classmates from the yearbook. She knew it was a risky maneuver; Best might be in contact with one of the randomly chosen women. But Best's response didn't indicate that he was.

"All right, I guess," he said. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, let's see," Ballard said. "When did you move to Hawaii and why?"

"Uh, that would have been… 2003, and to be honest, I did it for a job. I went to the CIA—the Culinary Institute of America, not the spy agency—and the job here was a referral from the school. It was a sous-chef gig in Oahu and I thought, why not? It's an adventure, right? And I've been here ever since. About nine years ago I moved from Oahu to the Big Island to work at a new restaurant, and it's doing very well. And I can tell you this: I'm never leaving Hawaii. In fact, I'm looking for investors so I can open my own restaurant."

"That's great. Do you get back to Pasadena very often?"

"Hate to say it but no. My parents followed me over here when my dad retired, so there isn't a big reason to go back."

"What about for the twenty-fifth reunion?"

"Uh, I'm thinking about it, yeah. Not sure if I can swing it. We're pretty busy here."

Ballard suddenly heard typing and realized it wasn't coming from Best's side of the call.

"Mr. Best, can I put you on hold for a moment?" she said quickly. "It won't be long."

"Uh, sure," Best said.

Ballard put her phone on mute and paused the recorder. She stood up and looked over the divider. Hatteras was at her workstation, typing something on her computer.

"Colleen, I thought you left," she said, unable to hide her irritation.

"No, I was just putting murder books back on the shelves," Hatteras said. "That is so cool how you got him talking. Like you're undercover. I love it."

"Look, you need to go home. You're throwing off my concentration, Colleen, and this conversation is not something I want you hearing, because that could be an issue down the line."

"Really? How? I'm just listening and learning."

"I don't want to get into it, but if this guy ends up being the guy, you could be called as a witness to the conversation. I don't want that, you understand?"

"Okay, I'm sorry. I'll just finish this email and send it and then I'm leaving."

"That would be good."

Hatteras moved her eyes back to the screen and the now-familiar pouting look returned to her face. Ballard sat back down, started the recorder again, and took her phone off mute.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Best," she said. "Where were we?"