Dark Sacred Night - Ballard and Bosch #1;Renée Ballard #2

by Michael Connelly

  Technically, Ballard was supposed to follow a protocol in which she would first study the crime scene and look for likely spots where the suspect could have left prints. Only upon finding possibilities should she call for the print car. But in reality, when it came to property crimes, the practice was the opposite. Delaying in calling the print car added up to long waits. She always called first to get her case in line and then started looking at the scene. She could then call the car off if she didn’t find any likely deposits.

  Ballard knew she was pushing her luck with Dillon but took a shot anyway at asking if he had a spare breathing mask. He surprised her by saying yes.

  He walked to the back of his truck and rolled up the door. The interior was stuffed with wet vacuums and other equipment. He pulled a box of throwaway masks out of a drawer in a tool chest and handed her one.

  “The filter in there is good for a day,” he said. “That’s it.”

  “Thank you,” Ballard said.

  “And I’ve got my cards right here.”

  He reached into another drawer and took out a stack of about ten business cards. He gave them to Ballard, who saw that the small print under CCB was the company’s formal name: Chemi-Cal Bio Services. She put the cards in her pocket and thanked Dillon, even though she knew her opportunities to recommend his services would be few.

  She left him there and went back inside the house, pulling on the breathing mask as she went. She stood in the living room and took in the place, observing and thinking. The removal of the source of decomposition—the body—would explain the decrease in noxious odor. But Ballard had been in houses like this before in the days after death and she believed that more than the removal of the body had helped the process. She concluded that she was looking for an open window.

  She moved to the far wall of glass and soon realized that the panels were on tracks that disappeared into a wall. The panels could be pushed into the wall, creating a wide opening onto the rear deck and giving the house an indoor-outdoor style. She slid open the first glass panel and stepped out onto the deck. She saw that it ran the length of the house behind the guest bedroom and the master. On the far end of the deck sat a rectangular air-conditioning unit. It had been removed from the wall below a window and left there. It must have been the burglar’s access point and the opening from which some of the decomp stink had escaped.

  Ballard walked down the deck to look at the opening. It was at least two feet tall and three wide. The AC unit looked relatively new. The homeowner had probably added it to provide extra cooling in the bedroom during the hottest weeks of summer.

  Ballard had the point of entry. Now the question was, how did the burglar get to it? The house was cantilevered over the steep hillside. She stepped to the guardrail and looked down. That was not the way. It would have been too difficult a trek, requiring ropes and hoists. That kind of planning conflicted with the fact that the air conditioner had been left out of its wall slot. This indicated the sloppy work of an opportunist, not a planner.

  She looked up. The roof of the deck was supported in four places by ornate black ironwork that formed a repeating pattern of tree branches crossing between two risers. Whether intentional or not, each one created a makeshift ladder down from the roof.

  Ballard stepped back into the house and went out the front door. Dillon was leaning against his truck. When he saw her, he straightened up and spread his arms wide questioningly.

  “Where’s the print car?” he asked. “When am I going to get out of here?”

  “Soon,” Ballard said. “Thank you for your patience.”

  She pointed to his truck.

  “But in the meantime, I saw you had a ladder on the wall inside your truck,” she said. “Could I borrow it for a few minutes? I want to get on the roof.”

  Dillon seemed happy to have something to do, especially if it further indebted the LAPD to him.

  “No problem,” he said.

  While Dillon got the ladder, Ballard stepped out into the street and walked along the front of the house. The design of the structure was all geared toward the view out the other side. That’s where the deck, windows, and glass doors were. This side, which was just three feet from the curb, was drab and monolithic save for the front door and one small window to the master bathroom. This fortresslike design was softened with alternating concrete planters containing bamboo stalks and vine-entwined lattices. Ballard studied the latticework and saw places where the vines had been damaged by someone using the connections as foot- and handholds for climbing. It was another improvised ladder.

  Dillon banged an extension ladder against the house. Ballard looked over and he gestured with his hand: all yours.

  While Dillon held the ladder steady, Ballard climbed to the flat roof. She walked toward the back edge, looking for footprints in the gravel or any other evidence of a burglar. There was nothing.

  She got to the far edge and looked out at the view. It was getting dark and the setting sun was turning the sky red and pink. She knew it would be a good sunset at the beach. She momentarily thought of Aaron and wanted to check in on him to see if he had any news on the man he had pulled out of the riptide.

  Turning her attention back to the case at hand, she was now sure she had found the burglar’s path. He had climbed up the lattice in the front, crossed the roof and climbed down the ironwork on the back deck. After removing the air conditioner, he had entered and taken the three prints off the wall as well as whatever other property might be missing. At that point, he simply walked out the front door with the stolen goods, leaving the front door slightly ajar.

  There were elements of genius mixed with naïveté. All aspects of the caper told her it had occurred under cover of darkness. That meant the burglary had happened on the night right after the discovery of the victim’s death. Someone had acted quickly, most likely with knowledge of the artwork in the house and its value—as well as its owner’s death.

  She turned in a circle, scanning the immediate neighborhood. She knew it was a city of cameras. Finding them was always high on any investigative protocol. Nowadays you looked for video before witnesses. Cameras didn’t lie or get confused.

  Hollywood Boulevard curved in and out along the mountain’s edge. The house she stood on was at a sharp bend around a blind curve. Ballard spotted a house on the curve that had a camera ostensibly aimed at a side stairway down to a landing below street level. But she knew that depending on the camera’s angle, there was a chance its field of view included the roof she stood on.

  The print car arrived as Ballard was descending the ladder, again with Dillon holding it steady for her. She first walked the tech through the house and deck, pointing out as possible spots for latents the wall where the three Warhols had been located as well as the AC unit left on the back deck. Then she stepped out front and introduced Dillon, asking the tech to take his prints first for exclusionary purposes. She thanked Dillon for his time and the use of his ladder and told him he was clear to leave as soon as he was printed.

  “You sure I’m not going to be able to do the cleaning tonight?” he asked. “I’ll wait around.”

  “It’s not possible,” Ballard said. “Ms. Clark is going to have to do the walk-through with somebody from dayside burglary. We don’t want the place cleaned before that.”

  “Okay, thought I’d try.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries. Make sure you use those cards.”

  He gave a little wave and went to the back of his truck to close it. Ballard headed down the street in the direction of the camera she had spotted. Ten minutes later she was talking to the owner of the home around the blind curve and looking over his shoulder at the video playback from the camera located on the side of his house. It had a full but digitally murky capture of the entire roof of the home that had been burglarized.

  “Let’s start at midnight,” Ballard said.

  17

  Ballard had her badge out and up when the door was o
pened. The man standing there looked concerned but not surprised. He was in sweats and one hand was in the front warmer of the sleeveless hoodie. Ballard could tell he was a “better living through science” guy. He had thick arms and the pronounced neck veins and hard eyes of a ’roid rider. His brown hair was slicked back over his head. His green eyes were glassy. He was shorter than Ballard but probably out-weighed her two to one.

  “Mr. Bechtel? Theodore Bechtel?”

  “It’s Ted. Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Ballard, LAPD. I would like to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”

  Bechtel didn’t answer. He stepped back to allow her room to enter. Ballard walked in, turning slightly sideways as she passed him so she wouldn’t lose direct sight of him. At this point, she considered him to be a burglar. She didn’t want to give him the chance to add assault or murder to the list.

  Bechtel reached over to close the door after she entered. She stopped him.

  “Can we leave that open if you don’t mind?” she said. “A couple of my colleagues will be coming.”

  “Uh, I guess so.”

  She turned in the circular entry area to look at him and accept further direction. But Bechtel just looked at her.

  “You’ve come for the Warhols, right?” he asked.

  She wasn’t expecting that. She hesitated, then composed a response.

  “Are you saying you have them?” she asked.

  “I do,” he said. “They’re in my study. Where they’re nice and safe.”

  He nodded as if to confirm a job well done.

  “Can you show me?”

  “Of course. Follow me.”

  Bechtel led Ballard down a short hallway into a home office. Sure enough, the three red lips prints were leaning against the wall. Bechtel spread his hands as if to present them.

  “I think those are Marilyn Monroes,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Ballard responded.

  “The lips. Warhol used Marilyn’s lips. I read it online.”

  “Mr. Bechtel, I need you to explain why these are in your house and not on the wall of the house across the street.”

  “I took them for safekeeping.”

  “Safekeeping. Who told you to do that?”

  “Well, nobody told me to do it. I just knew somebody needed to do it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, because everybody knew she had them in there, and they were going to get stolen.”

  “So, you stole them first?”

  “No, I didn’t steal them. I told you. I brought them over here for safekeeping. To keep them for the rightful heir. I hear she had a niece in New York who gets everything.”

  “That’s the story you want to go with? That this was some kind of neighborly act of kindness?”

  “It’s what happened.”

  Ballard stepped back from him and took stock of what she knew and what she had in terms of witnesses and evidence.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Bechtel?”

  “Nutrition. I sell supplements. I have a store down in the flats.”

  “Do you own this house?”

  “I rent.”

  “How long have you been up here?”

  “Three months. No, four.”

  “How well did you know the woman who lived across the street?”

  “I didn’t. Not really. Just to say hello to. That sort of thing.”

  “I think at this point I need to advise you of your rights.”

  “What? Are you arresting me?”

  He looked genuinely surprised.

  “Mr. Bechtel, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney to represent you. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them?”

  “I don’t understand. I was being a good neighbor.”

  “Do you understand your rights as I have recited them to you?”

  “Yes, shit, I understand. But this is completely unnecessary. I have a business. I didn’t do—”

  “Sit down in that chair, please.”

  Ballard pointed to a chair that was against the wall. She kept pointing until Bechtel reluctantly sat down.

  “This is amazing,” he said. “You try to do a good thing and you get hassled for it.”

  Ballard pulled her phone and speed-dialed the watch office. Before knocking on Bechtel’s door, she had requested backup because Felsen and Torborg had been sent to another call while she had been down the street looking at video. Now she was facing a situation where she had to make a felony arrest without backup. Her call wasn’t answered for six rings. While she waited, she casually took a few steps farther back from Bechtel so she would have more time to react should he decide he didn’t want to be arrested.

  Finally, her call was answered by a voice she didn’t recognize.

  “This is two-whiskey-twenty-five, where’s my backup?”

  “Uh…I don’t see that here on the board. You sure you called for backup?”

  “Yes, fifteen minutes ago. Send it. Now. No delay. And keep this connection open.”

  Ballard barked the address into the phone, then refocused on Bechtel. She would find out about the missing backup later.

  Bechtel was sitting with both hands in the front pocket of his hoodie.

  “I want you to take your hands out of the hoodie and keep them where I can see them,” she said.

  Bechtel complied but shook his head like this whole thing was a misunderstanding.

  “Are you really arresting me?”

  “Do you want to explain why you climbed over the roof of the house across the street, broke in on the back deck, and took three artworks worth several hundred thousand dollars?”

  Bechtel didn’t speak. He seemed surprised by her knowledge.

  “Yeah, there’s video,” Ballard said.

  “Well, I had to get in there somehow,” he said. “Otherwise, somebody else would’ve and then the paintings would be gone.”

  “They’re prints, actually.”

  “Whatever. I didn’t steal them.”

  “Did you take anything else besides the prints?”

  “No, why would I do that? I just cared about the paintings. The prints, I mean.”

  Ballard had to decide whether to cuff Bechtel to neutralize the threat or to wait for backup, which now might be another ten to fifteen minutes away. It was a long time to wait with a suspect not fully controlled.

  “The District Attorney’s Office will decide whether a crime was committed. But I will be arresting you. Right now I want you—”

  “This is such bullshit—”

  “—to get up from the chair and face the wall. I want you to kneel on the floor and lace your fingers behind your head.”

  Bechtel stood up but didn’t move any further.

  “Kneel down, sir.”

  “No, I’m not kneeling down. I didn’t do anything.”

  “You are under arrest, sir. Kneel down on the ground and lace your—”

  She didn’t finish. Bechtel started moving toward her. It was crystal clear in the moment that if Ballard pulled her gun, she would probably have to use it, and it would most likely be the end of her career, no matter how justified a shooting it would be.

  But what wasn’t clear was whether Bechtel was coming at her or trying simply to walk around her and leave the room.

  He moved as if heading toward the door but then suddenly pivoted toward her. Ballard tried to use his advantage—his weight and muscles—against him.

  As Bechtel advanced, Ballard placed a well-directed kick to his groin, then took two steps back and to the side as he doubled over and lurched forward, emitting a sharp groan. She grabbed his right wrist and elbow, pushed the wrist down and pulled the elbow up as she pivoted him over her leg. He went down face-first and she dropped all 120 pounds of her weight through her knees onto the small of his back.

&nbs
p; “Don’t fucking move!”

  But he did. He groaned like a monster and attempted to rise, doing a push-up off the floor. Ballard drove a knee into his ribs and he dropped to the floor again with an oof. She quickly grabbed the cuffs off her belt and clasped one over his right wrist before he realized he was being cuffed. He struggled against the next one but Ballard had the leverage. She pulled the wrists together against his spine and closed the second cuff around the left. Bechtel was now controlled.

  Ballard got up, exhausted but exhilarated that she had taken the stronger man to ground.

  “You’re going to jail, motherfucker.”

  “This is all a big mistake. Come on, this is wrong.”

  “Tell it to the judge. They love hearing bullshit from guys like you.”

  “You’ll regret this.”

  “Believe me, I already do. But it doesn’t change anything. You’re going to jail.”

  Bosch

  18

  Bosch and Lourdes had spent the rest of the day watching Dr. Jaime Henriquez to see whether he would eventually make a house call. Henriquez was a native son of San Fernando. He was the kid who’d made good and stayed close. A UCLA-trained physician, he could have worked anywhere in the country. But he came home and now operated a busy general practice on Truman Avenue with two other doctors to handle the overflow of patients Henriquez drew. He was a San Fernando success story, having grown up in the barrio and now living in the lush Huntington Estates, the nicest and safest neighborhood in the city.

  But while outwardly he was a pillar of success and respectability, his name was secretly carried in the SFPD’s gang intel files. Both his father and grandfather had been SanFers, and loyalty—whether compelled or volunteered—ran deep. The secret of his life was that Henriquez was a suspected gang doctor, and Bosch and Lourdes were going to find out if he was treating the killer of Martin Perez. Lourdes’s cousin J-Rod had put them onto Henriquez, saying he was one of three doctors on the gang unit’s radar. But the other two had already drawn investigations from the state’s medical board and it was J-Rod’s interpretation that for this case—the killing of a witness—the SanFers would go to their top patcher, who lived a life that seemed beyond reproach.