Looking at the photos, they identified two trails in addition to the fire road that led through the brush and up to the compound. Before they headed up separately, Ballard called Rourke, explained the plan, and told her to stand by. The airship was still on the ground at the nearby LAPD training facility and Rourke assured her that it was ready to respond.
Ballard disconnected and looked at Lourdes and Sisto.
“Okay, let’s go find Harry,” she said.
Ballard had chosen the most direct route to the compound—the fire road. She stayed close to the tall brush that lined it but had the easier climb and the quickest time to the clearing where the compound was located.
At the final bend before the clearing, she started to hear a loud banging sound coming from the direction of the compound. It was intermittent. Five or six heavy impacts and then silence. After a few seconds it would start again.
Ballard pulled her phone to call or text Lourdes but saw she no longer had cell service. She had left the rover in the car since she wanted to keep this operation off the air. Each of them would have to approach on their own now, not knowing the progress of the others.
Ballard reached the clearing, pulling her gun and holding it at her side as she approached the first of two rundown structures. She turned the corner of the front building and saw Lourdes emerge from a trail to her right. There was no sign of Sisto.
Ballard was about to signal Lourdes over so they could clear the first building, when the banging started again. She could tell that it was coming from the other, smaller building set at the back of the clearing. Ballard pointed toward it. Lourdes nodded and they moved in the direction of the sound.
There was a wooden door on rollers that had been slid open four feet. It gave Ballard and Lourdes an angle on the inside of the shed but the structure was rectangular and its full interior could not be seen from outside.
As they got within a few feet of the opening, the banging stopped.
They froze and waited. It didn’t start again. Looking at the open door, Ballard spoke loudly.
“Harry?”
After a moment of silence:
“In here!”
Ballard looked at Lourdes.
“Hold cover. I’ll go in.”
Ballard entered the structure gun up. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and then she turned to her right. The far wall of the shed was lined with rusting kennels, two stacked rows of four. Bosch was sitting in the third cage on the upper row, knees pulled up to his chest in the small space. Through the steel fencing, Ballard could see that his hands and ankles were tied. There was blood on his shirt and a laceration on his upper left cheek, just below a swollen eye.
Ballard swept the rest of the space with her weapon to make sure.
“It’s clear,” Bosch said. “But they’ll probably come back soon.”
He raised his bound feet and kicked at the door of the kennel, creating the banging sound Ballard had heard from outside the shed. His fruitless effort to break free and escape.
“Okay, hold on, Harry, and we’ll get you out,” she said. “What’s your status? Do we call an RA?”
“No RA,” Bosch said. “I’m good. Couple of bruised ribs, my legs cramping like hell. I probably need stitches under my eye. They didn’t want to beat me up too bad before Tranquillo got here with his dogs.”
Ballard didn’t think Bosch would go for the rescue ambulance. Not his style. She moved close to the cage and studied the padlock holding it closed.
“They didn’t leave the key hidden around here, did they?” she asked.
“Not that I saw,” Bosch said.
“I could shoot the lock but the ricochet might hit you.”
“Only works in movies.”
“Bella? All clear.”
Lourdes entered the shed then.
“Harry, you okay?” she asked urgently.
“I will be as soon as you get me out of here,” Bosch said. “My knee’s killing me.”
“Okay, I’m going back to the car,” said Ballard. “I think we can put a crowbar through the loop and twist it off.”
Bosch looked at Ballard through the fencing.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Did you send the helicopter up here?”
“Yeah,” Ballard said.
Bosch nodded his thanks.
“I’ll be right back,” Ballard said.
Sisto was standing in the clearing, his back to the shed and maintaining a watch. Ballard passed by him on her way to the road down to the vehicles.
“Did you clear the other structure?” she asked.
“All clear,” he said.
“I’m going to need you in a few to twist off a lock.”
“I’m ready. Is he okay?”
“He will be.”
“Great.”
As she was heading down the fire road, her phone regained service and a text from Rourke came through. She was checking in and wanting an update. Ballard called her and told her to continue to stand by. As soon as Bosch was free, they would need to make a decision on what to do: set up a trap for his captors should they return, or clear out and proceed in another way.
She retrieved the crowbar from her city car’s roadside emergency kit, grabbed the rover out of the charging dock, and headed back up the fire road. Halfway up she heard the rat-a-tat sound of a dirt bike behind her. She turned and saw a rider on a lime-green bike come to a stop on Coyote Street and look up at her. He was wearing a matching helmet with a darkly tinted visor. They stared at each other for a few seconds before the rider turned the wheel and walked the bike into a U-turn before taking off.
Knowing that the first option of waiting for the return of the captors was now moot, she called Rourke on the radio and ordered the airship back into flight. She asked Rourke to circle the compound as a backup measure, keeping an eye out for the lime-green dirt bike.
Ballard was out of breath from hustling up the hill to the shed. She handed the crowbar to Sisto like she was passing a baton and he took it inside the shed while she trailed behind. She bent over and put her hands on her thighs and watched as Sisto threaded the crowbar through the loop on the cage door. He then turned the bar and the loop popped off its weld points. He opened the door and Ballard came over and joined Lourdes in carefully helping Bosch out and lowering him to his feet on the dirt floor. Lourdes opened a pocket knife and cut the bindings off his hands and feet.
“Standing up feels good,” he said.
He painfully tried a few steps, putting an arm around each woman’s neck.
“I think we need an RA, Harry,” Lourdes said.
“No, I don’t need that,” Bosch protested. “I can walk. Just let me…”
He dropped his arms from them and hobbled toward the doorway on his own. The sound of the airship off in the distance was coming closer.
“Call them off,” Bosch said. “These guys might be coming back. We can take them then.”
“No, I blew it,” Ballard said. “They know we’re here. Lime-green dirt bike?”
Bosch nodded.
“Yeah, him.”
“He saw me when I went back for the crowbar. Saw the cars.”
“Shit.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
Bosch walked out into the clearing and looked up at the sun. Ballard watched him. She guessed that during the night, he might have come to the grim conclusion that he’d never see the big orange ball again.
“Harry, let’s go get you looked at and get some stitches on that cheek,” Lourdes said. “Then we’ll go over gang books and draw warrants for every one of the motherfuckers you identify.”
Ballard knew that the SFPD must have extensive photo books of known members of the SanFers. If Bosch made IDs of those who had revealed themselves to him during the night, then they could make arrests.
“I don’t think they were SanFers,” Bosch said. “I think Tranquillo called in the eMe for this. Probably made sure all of his boys h
ad alibis for the night.”
“And Cortez never showed up?” Lourdes asked.
“Nope. I think he was coming by today. With his dogs.”
Bosch turned to Ballard.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“Your daughter,” Ballard said. “The tracking app on your phone.”
“Did she come up?”
“No, I told her to stay away from the house.”
“I have to call her. They took my phone and crunched it.”
“You can use mine as soon as it gets service.”
Lourdes pulled her phone and checked it, then held it up.
“Two bars,” she said.
She handed Bosch the phone and he punched in a number. Ballard only heard his side of the conversation.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m okay.”
He listened and then continued in a calming voice.
“No, really. I got a little roughed up but no big deal. Where are you?”
Ballard read the relief on Bosch’s face. Maddie had listened to her and stayed away from the house.
“My phone got crunched, so if you need me, call this number for Detective Lourdes,” he said. “You can also call Detective Ballard. You have that number, right?”
He listened and nodded, even though his daughter wouldn’t see it.
“Uh, no, she’s gone now,” he said. “She left a couple days ago. We can talk about that later.”
He then listened for a long time before making a final response.
“Love you, too. I’ll see you soon.”
He disconnected the phone and handed it back to Ballard. He looked shaken by the call, or maybe the realization of how close he had come to losing everything.
Bosch turned to Lourdes and Sisto.
“I’ll come in tomorrow to look at the eMe book,” he said. “I just want to go home now.”
“You can’t go home,” Ballard said quickly. “It’s a crime scene. So is this. We need to run this by the book: call out Major Crimes, find out how they got to you. How they got to your house.”
“And you need stitches,” Lourdes said.
Ballard saw the realization break on Bosch’s face. He had a long day ahead of him.
“Fine, I’ll go to the ER. And you can call out the troops. But I don’t want to be here anymore.”
Bosch started unsteadily walking toward the dirt road leading down. His limp was more pronounced than when Ballard had seen it before.
She saw him look up at the airship passing overhead. He raised his arm and sent a thumbs-up as a thank-you.
37
By the time Ballard was released by the detectives from Major Crimes it was almost six and she had not slept in more than twenty-four hours. With her next shift starting in five hours it was not worth driving down to the beach or out to her grandmother’s house in Ventura in rush-hour traffic. Instead, she drove south to Hollywood Station. She left her city ride in the parking lot, got a change of clothes out of her van, and then took an Uber to the W Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard. She knew from many previous stays there that they gave a deep law enforcement discount, had a dependable room service menu, and were liberal about checkout time. There was a cot at the station in a storage room known as the Honeymoon Suite, but she knew from experience she couldn’t sleep there. Too many intrusions. She wanted comfort, food, and solid sleep in the limited time she had.
She got a room with a northern view of the Santa Monica Mountains, the Capitol Records Building, and the Hollywood sign. But she closed the drapes, ordered a salad with grilled chicken, and took a shower. A half hour later she was eating on the bed, bundled in an oversize bathrobe, her wet hair slicked back and down her neck.
Her laptop was open on the bed and distracting her from what was now less than four hours of available sleep time. But she couldn’t help herself. She had downloaded the GRASP files from the thumb drive Professor Calder had given her that morning. She had told herself she would make only a quick survey of the data before going to sleep but the shower had helped push back her fatigue and she became transfixed.
What had drawn her attention initially was that there was a murder in the division just two nights before Daisy Clayton was abducted and murdered. This case was quickly cleared by arrest, according to the data.
Ballard was unable to enter the department’s database remotely but was able to access two brief Los Angeles Times reports on the case in the newspaper’s murder blog, which documented every murder that occurred in the city. According to the first story, the killing had occurred in a tattoo parlor on Sunset called ZooToo. A female tattoo artist named Audie Haslam was murdered by a customer. Haslam owned the shop and was working a solo shift when someone entered, pulled a knife and robbed her. Haslam was then walked into a back room used for storage and stabbed multiple times during a brutal struggle. She bled out on the floor.
Ballard’s excitement over a possible connection to the Clayton case was quickly doused when she read the second story, which described the arrest of the suspect, a motorcycle gang affiliate named Clancy Devoux, the following day after police matched a bloody fingerprint from the scene to him. Devoux had several vials of ink and an electric tattoo needle in his possession. Investigators found the victim’s fingerprints on the vials. They also found a fresh tattoo of a skull with a halo scabbing over on Devoux’s forearm. He had apparently come into the shop as a customer and the robbery-murder occurred after Haslam had given him a tattoo. It was not clear if the murder was an impulsive act brought on by something Haslam did or might have said or Devoux’s plan all along.
According to the follow-up report, Devoux was being held without bail in the Men’s Central Jail. That meant he was in custody on the night Daisy Clayton was taken. There was no way he was a suspect in the second murder. Deflated, Ballard still made a note to pull the murder book on the case. Her thinking was that there might be names in the book of people who were in Hollywood at the time and who might have information on the Clayton case. It was a long shot, she knew, but one that might need to be taken.
There were five rapes reported in the four-day span of the GRASP data and Ballard paid careful attention to these as well. She pulled up whatever information she could on her laptop and determined that two of the rapes were classified as assaults by strangers. The other three were considered rapes by acquaintances and not the work of a predator stalking women he didn’t know. One of the stranger cases occurred the day before the Clayton murder and one occurred the day after. It appeared from the digest summaries in the GRASP data that they were not the work of one man. There had been two sexual predators.
Ballard typed the case numbers from the murder and the two rapes into a file request form and emailed it to the archives unit. She asked for expedited delivery of the files but knew that the priority would be low because she was looking for cold files—a closed murder case and two rapes that were now beyond the seven-year statute of limitations.
After sending the email, Ballard felt her excitement wane and her fatigue return. She closed her laptop and left it on the bed. After setting her phone to sound an alarm in three hours, she slipped under the bedcovers, her robe still on, and fell immediately to sleep.
She dreamed that someone was following her but disappeared each time she turned around to look behind her. When the alarm woke her, she was in a deep stage-four sleep and disoriented as she opened her eyes and didn’t recognize her surroundings. It was the thick terry cloth of the robe that finally brought it all back and she realized where she was.
She ordered an Uber and got dressed in the fresh clothes she’d brought from her van. The car was waiting when she took the elevator down and walked out to the hotel’s entrance.
Harry Bosch’s abduction made the sergeant’s report at roll call. It was mentioned since it had occurred in his home, which straddled the line between Hollywood and North Hollywood divisions, and that home was now posted with uniformed and plainclothes officers from Metropolitan Division in an att
empt to dissuade Tranquillo Cortez from sending more men to abduct Bosch again.
Otherwise the briefing was short. A cold front had moved across the city from the ocean, and lower temperatures were one of the best crime deterrents around. Sergeant Klinkenberg, a longtime veteran who kept himself in shape and wore the same size uniform as he did on graduation day from the academy, said things were slow out on the streets of Hollywood. As the troops were filing out, Ballard made her way against the flow of bodies heading to the door and up to Klinkenberg, who remained behind the lectern.
“What’s up, Renée?” he asked.
“I missed the last couple of roll calls,” Ballard said. “I just want to check to see if you guys put out the BOLO I gave Lieutenant Munroe about the guy named Eagleton.”
Klinkenberg turned and pointed to the wall where there was a corkboard covered with Wanted flyers.
“You mean that guy?” he said. “Yeah, we put that out last night.”
Ballard saw her flyer for the man who called himself Eagle on the board.
“Any chance you can give it another pop next roll call?” she asked. “I really want this guy.”
“If it’s as slow as tonight, then no problem,” Klinkenberg said. “Get me another stack and I’ll put it out.”
“Thanks, Klink.”
“How’s Bosch? I know you were involved in that.”
“He’s good. He got roughed up and cracked a few ribs. They finally persuaded him to stay the night at Olive View up there. With a guard on the door.”
Klinkenberg nodded.
“He’s a good guy. He got a rough deal around here but he’s one of the good ones.”
“You worked with him?”
“As much as a blue suiter can work with a detective. We were here at the same time. I remember he was a no-bullshit kind of guy. I’m glad he’s okay and I hope they catch the fuckers who grabbed him.”
“They will. And when they do, he and whoever was part of it will go away for a long time. You grab one of us, you cross a line, and that message will go out loud and clear.”
“There you go.”
Ballard went downstairs to the detective bureau, where she set up at a desk near the empty lieutenant’s office. The first thing she did was go online and connect to the live cams at the pet-care center where she had left her dog. It had been more than twenty-four hours since she had seen Lola and she missed her greatly. Ballard had always thought that when she rubbed the dog’s neck or scratched her hard head, she got more fulfillment out of it than Lola did.
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