9

9

SURF'S UP REPORTED that for a second straight day, the break at Staircases was where the juiciest waves in the Southland were rolling in. While Ballard didn't believe the thieves she was looking for were the smartest criminals she had ever hunted, she did think that they were probably wise enough not to return to the same spot a day after stealing a police officer's badge and gun. But she headed up the Pacific Coast Highway anyway, just to scope it out through eyes that had a better understanding of the setup.

She had spent a good part of the night working online, matching theft reports against the wave history on the Surf's Up app. With only one exception, every theft reported by a surfer in the previous twelve months had occurred at the break where the app said the best waves were to be found. It was clear when her analysis was completed that the thieves—and she, too, was convinced it was more than one culprit—were using the Surf's Up app to plot their crimes.

And now she was driving in predawn darkness toward Staircases on the off chance that the thieves were not as smart as she'd assumed.

It was still dark when she got there. The parking area behind the bluffs was empty. She got out and walked the length of the lot, looking at the ridgeline that ran behind it. There had to be an observation point where both the water and the parking area could be seen. This would allow the thieves to watch their intended victims hide their vehicle keys and know exactly when they were out on the water so they could make their move.

The bluff between the parking lot and the water was at its highest point at the north end of the lot. Ballard instinctively knew that it would be the best observation spot. She turned on a mini-flashlight she had retrieved from her equipment bag and trudged up the sandy incline. At the top she found a small clearing in the seagrass where the parking area and the beach were easily viewed. The litter of cans and bottles and other trash seemed to be proof that she was right.

Most of the debris was discarded willy-nilly on the sand or in the seagrass rimming it. But one can of Red Bull stood upright. Ashes around the pop-top hole indicated that it had been used as an ashtray. This seemed unusual to Ballard, considering that the spot was out in the open, and ashes could easily be flicked into the wind.

She snapped on latex gloves and picked up the can by the rim using two fingers so as not to smudge any prints on the barrel. She gently shook the can, and it seemed empty of liquid, but there was something inside. She guessed it was a cigarette butt or the end of a joint. She pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket and put the can in it. It was possible that the can had been handled by the thieves who ripped her off, but it was a long shot. Still, she had learned over the years to follow her hunches. Sometimes they paid off.

Looking out across the beach to the water, she saw one surfer already out there in the early light of dawn. He wore no wetsuit, and Ballard knew it was her breakfast suitor, Van.

Ballard wished she were out there, not standing on a bluff with an evidence bag in her hand. She wondered if there would ever come a time when she didn't carry latex gloves and evidence bags in her pockets.

She walked back down to the parking lot and saw that there was now another vehicle there, a vintage VW van painted light blue with white trim. Windows all around, and surf racks on the roof. It had to be Van's van, and she wondered if Van was really his name or a nickname he'd picked up because of the VW. Either way, she liked him better for what he drove and its connection to the surf culture of the past.

She got back in the Defender and took the Pacific Coast Highway to the 10 freeway, which would take her through downtown and out to Cal State L.A., where the department's forensics lab was located.

On the way she stopped at the beach at Topanga and looked around, but there were no surfers and not much action on the break. She looked for the fruit vendor mentioned in the Dawson police report but he was nowhere in sight, and Ballard wasn't going to wait to see if he showed. The Red Bull can in the evidence bag on the seat next to her was front of mind and she wanted to get it to the lab without further delay.

The PCH curved east through the tunnel in Santa Monica and transitioned to the 10 freeway. Twenty minutes later she was through downtown and taking the exit for the lab complex the LAPD shared with the sheriff's department. The latent-prints unit was on the first floor, and as it did in the DNA lab three floors above, the Open-Unsolved Unit had a go-to tech there assigned to handle its print requests. But criminalist Federico Beltran was not as accommodating as Darcy Troy. Ballard was hoping that by coming in person to deliver a piece of evidence for examination, she could avoid delay.

After parking, she pulled her phone and called Paul Masser. She didn't want to run into him in the building and have to explain what the Red Bull can was all about. When he answered, she could tell he was in a moving car.

"Hey, did you get to the lab yet?" she asked.

"Just left. Darcy said she'd put the samples through today."

"Samples?"

"I gave her both. As you said last night, it would be good to identify the woman and get her genetic signature."

Ballard nodded, though she knew he couldn't see her. "Okay, but will it slow Darcy down, having two samples to send to DOJ?"

"I don't see how it could, but if you want me to call her back and say hold off on the lipstick, I will."

"No, never mind. I'm overthinking it."

"She said she'd be quick."

"Good. Where are you headed now?"

"Norwalk to pull Nicholas Purcell's birth certificate—if he was born here in the county. After that, back to the barn."

"Okay, I'll see you there later. I've got an errand to run this morning. Tell Colleen not to panic if I'm late."

"I'm sure she will anyway."

Ballard disconnected and realized she had a problem: She needed her ID to get inside the building. She had been to the lab so many times during her career that she knew every one of the security officers who manned the front entrance. More than once, she had been waved through without showing her ID, but she always had it with her. It would be just her luck if a new guard was on post today and asked her for it.

She thought about possible solutions for a few moments and then got out and opened the back door of the Defender. She had a plastic carton there that contained her crime scene equipment—overalls, booties, rubber boots, gloves, hats, crime scene markers, extra notebooks, and a camera. She hadn't needed most of it during her time in the Open-Unsolved Unit because the crime scenes in those cases were long gone. But she needed it now. She put the bag containing the Red Bull can on top of the carton, kicked the door of the Defender closed, and carried the whole thing to the building.

As she went through the automatic doors, Ballard exaggerated the weight of the carton and tried to hurry by the check-in desk, where a security guard sat. She recognized him, but he was fairly new and might not recognize her. She quickly read his nameplate—Eastwood—as she moved by, and it prompted her to remember his obvious nickname.

"Hey, Clint," she said. "Ballard, Open-Unsolved, going to see Rico in Latents. Can you put me down?"

"Sure thing," Eastwood said. "Badge number?"

"Seven-six-five-eight."

"All you need is a nine."

"What?"

"To make a straight."

Ballard threw out a fake laugh. "Oh, yeah, right. Can you hit the door?"

"Sure can. You need help with that? Looks heavy."

"No, I got it. Thanks."

Eastwood buzzed the automatic door and it opened. Ballard was in. She walked down the hall to the latent-prints section and put the crime scene carton down next to the door. She went in with the evidence bag containing the can.

Federico Beltran was already in his cubicle looking at side-by-side fingerprints on a large computer screen. Ballard knew this was the last step in making a print match. The computer pulled matches from all databases the department subscribed to around the country, and it was the tech's job to eyeball the matches for accuracy and make the call.

"Rico, my favorite print man," Ballard said. "How are you this fine morning?"

Beltran looked up at her; she was leaning on the half wall to the right of his screen. "Ballard," he said. "I'm busy this fine morning."

"Well, I'm going to have to add to your plate," Ballard said. She raised her hand from behind the wall so he could see the evidence bag containing the can. Beltran groaned like Ballard had known he would.

"Come on, now," she said. "Cheer up. I'm only laying one item on you. It could be a lot worse."

"Leave it on the desk and I'll get to it," Beltran said.

"Actually, I need this on a priority, Federico. I'm going to wait on this one."

"You can't. I'm in the middle of a case here."

"And I can see you're at the end of it, so finish that and run with mine. You're our guy and the key to solving this case. You could be a hero, and we won't forget to mention you in the press release."

"Right. We never get the kudos. You people hog all the glory."

"But not this time. I just need you to vape this can and see what you get. Two hours tops, and if there's any kudos to hand out, your name's first on the list."

"Yeah, I've heard that before and I think it was from you."

But Beltran turned away from his screen and took the bag from Ballard. She knew she had him.

"What's the case number?" he asked. "I'll have to see if a vaper is free."

The vaper was the glass case where small objects were exposed to vaporized cyanoacrylate, which crystallized on the ridges of fingerprints, raising them and turning them white. They could then be collected by tape or photographed and compared to other prints in the databases.

But whether or not the vaper was free was not Ballard's immediate problem. All work submitted to the latent-prints section for processing and comparison had to be filed under a case number. The problem was that Ballard had no case number because there was no official investigation into the theft of her badge, gun, and other property. Ballard had to be careful about which legitimate case number to give. If she gave Beltran a case that was solved someday, her request for a print run would become part of discovery during a prosecution and could hand a defense attorney all that was needed to question the integrity of the case.

This was why Ballard was prepared with a murder case that would never be solved. She gave Beltran the number, 88-0394, and the name, Jeffrey Haskell. Beltran wrote the information down and realized the case was more than three decades old.

"Eighty-eight?" he said. "How can this be a priority?"

"I'll tell you how," Ballard said. "Because that Red Bull can was touched by a suspect we watched yesterday, and I need to know his identity and see if he connects to any other cases."

The truth was that the 1988 case had been reviewed by members of the Open-Unsolved Unit earlier in the year and Ballard had signed off on their assessment that it was not solvable using any contemporary forensic tools. There was no DNA. There were no ballistics. There were no fingerprints. There weren't any witnesses, and there was no murder weapon. The case was the murder of a twenty-two-year-old Malibu kid named Jeffrey Haskell who had driven into a crime-ridden area of South Central to buy drugs in a housing project. Instead of scoring, he was robbed, stabbed with an unknown instrument, and left to bleed out in the car he had borrowed from his mother after telling her he was going to a bookstore. Thirty-plus years later, there were no leads to follow and no suspects. It was a cold case that was destined to forever be on a shelf in the murder archives.

Not every case could be solved. Ballard knew this but also knew the value of a case number and name that could be used to get lab work done on items that were not part of an active investigation. She had committed Jeffrey Haskell's name and his case number to memory. She knew she would never be able to get justice for Haskell, but in a way only she knew about, he might help solve another crime.

"Okay," Beltran said. "I have your cell. I'll call you if I get anything."

"No, I'm staying," Ballard said. "That way I know you won't back-burner it the minute I walk out the door."

"I'm not going to do that."

"So you say."

"Okay, fine. Stay as long as you like. I'm going to go fume it."

He stood up, took the evidence bag, and headed to the lab doors at the back of the room. Ballard knew she couldn't follow him. There were strict protocols in place to ensure that evidence in the lab was not contaminated or tainted by nonessential personnel.

"Okay, so you'll let me know when you have something?" she called after him. She hated how her tone verged on pleading.

"I said I would," Beltran said without breaking stride or turning back to her.

Ballard watched him go through the doors and then checked the time on her phone. It was only 8:20, and if she left now, she could be to the Ahmanson Center before anyone—other than Colleen Hatteras—realized she was late.