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

by Michael Connelly

  She located her on one of the camera screens. She was sleeping on an oval bed. A smaller dog had pushed in and curled up on the bed with her. Ballard smiled and immediately felt the pang of guilt that came every time she caught a case that took over her schedule and required leaving Lola at pet care for extended periods. She had no qualms about the level of care. Ballard checked the cameras often and paid for extra things like walks around the Abbot Kinney neighborhood. But Ballard could not help wondering if she was a bad pet owner and if Lola would be better off being put up for adoption.

  Not wanting to dwell on the question, she killed the connection and went to work, spending the next two hours of her shift going through the FI cards put aside for special attention and backgrounding the individuals who had caught the notice of patrol officers in Hollywood in the months surrounding the murder of Daisy Clayton.

  At shortly after two a.m. she got her first callout of the night and spent the next two hours interviewing witnesses to a brawl that had broken out at a bar on Highland when the bouncer had attempted to clear the place at closing time and a group of four USC students had objected because they still had full bottles of beer. The bouncer was cut across the back of the head by one of those bottles and was treated at the scene by paramedics. Ballard took his statement first, but he could not say for sure which of the four students had wielded the bottle he was struck with. After securing his confirmation that he wished to press charges against his attacker, the LAPD released him to the paramedics, who transported him to Hollywood Presbyterian. Ballard next spoke to a bartender and the establishment’s manager before moving on to the students.

  The students were locked two apiece in the back seats of patrol cars. Ballard had purposely put the two boys who looked the most scared together and had secretly left her digital recorder on the front seat where they couldn’t get it. It was a ploy that every now and then produced an unintended confession.

  When she pulled the recorder out this time, she got the opposite of a confession. Both of the young men were angry and scared that they were going to be arrested when neither of them had thrown the bottle at the bouncer.

  That left the two in the other car, whom Ballard had not covered with a recorder. She took them out one at a time to be interviewed. The first student denied that he had instigated the brawl or hit the bouncer with the bottle. But when confronted with the twenty-six-beer bar tab they had amassed, he acknowledged that he had overconsumed and was talking trash to the bartender and the bouncer when closing time was announced. He apologized to Ballard for his behavior and told her he was willing to do it to the bar’s staff as well.

  The interview with the last student went differently. He announced that he was the son of a lawyer and was fully aware of his rights. He said he would not be waiving his rights or talking to Ballard without an attorney present.

  When finished, Ballard conferred with Sergeant Klinkenberg, who was the on-site patrol supervisor.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Somebody’s gotta go for this, right? Otherwise, these little college pissants will just come back up here and do it again.”

  Ballard nodded as she looked down at her notebook to get the names right.

  “All right, you can kick Pyne, Johnson, and Fiskin loose,” she said. “Book Bernardo—he’s got the shaved head and thinks his lawyer dad will save him. And make sure the three you let go aren’t driving.”

  “We already asked,” Klinkenberg said. “They Ubered.”

  “Okay, I’ll paper it as soon as I get back to the barn and drop it by the jail.”

  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Likewise, Klink.”

  Back at the bureau it took Ballard less than an hour to write up the incident report and the arrest warrant for Bernardo. After leaving the paperwork with the records clerk, she checked the watch office clock and saw she was down to the last two hours of her shift.

  She was dead tired and looking forward to sleeping five or six hours at the W. The thought of sleep reminded her of the dream she’d had in which she felt there was someone following her. It made her turn around as she walked down the empty back hallway to the detective bureau.

  There was no one there.

  38

  The phone call came in at noon, waking Ballard from another deep trench of sleep. The hotel room was dark with the blackout drapes drawn closed. The screen of her phone glowed. It was a number she didn’t recognize, but at least it wasn’t blocked.

  She took the call, her voice cracking when she said hello.

  “Ballard, it’s Bosch. You asleep?”

  “What do you think? What number is this?”

  “It’s a landline. I haven’t replaced my cell yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “You had to work last night? Even though you spent the day saving my ass?”

  “I wasn’t on the clock when I did that, Harry. Where are you? Still at Olive View?”

  “No, got released this morning. Six stitches, two cracked ribs, and otherwise a clean bill of health. I’m at San Fernando PD.”

  “Did they pick up Tranquillo yet?”

  “Not yet, but they think they got him surrounded. SIS is sitting on a house in Panorama City where they think he’s holed up. Belongs to his aunt—the one that was married to Uncle Murda. They’re in deep cover, waiting for him to make a move, and then they’ll scoop him up.”

  The SIS was the LAPD’s elite surveillance squad that was called in to shadow violent offenders. They carried high-powered weapons and engaged in military-style follow maneuvers. Ballard also knew that SIS tactics had been questioned for decades by the media and law enforcement critics from across the country. Many of their surveillance jobs ended in deadly shoot-outs. The SIS kill count topped all other divisions and units in the department.

  “Okay,” Ballard said. “Let’s hope they do.”

  “So, what’s on the schedule for today?” Bosch asked, changing the subject.

  “Technically, I’m off, but my partner’s not back till Monday and I could use the OT. I was going to work. But my number-one priority is to get up and go see my dog. She probably hates me by now.”

  “You have a dog?”

  “Yup.”

  “Nice. So you see the dog, then what? Where are we on the shake cards?”

  It didn’t sound to Ballard like Bosch was a dog person.

  “I’ve gone through the finalists and you are welcome to back-read me on them if you want,” she said. “I cleared about twenty and prioritized the rest. I have an appointment at four today with one of the men at the top of the list.”

  “An appointment?” Bosch asked. “What do you mean?”

  Ballard told him about the shake cards involving the officer who happened upon a porno shoot in a van. She said the two priority names were Kurt Pascal and Wilson Gayley.

  “I know somebody in the business,” she added. “She set up a casting meeting with Pascal. He was the one having sex in the van. I’m going to—”

  “Where’s the meet?” Bosch asked.

  “Canoga Park. She has her own studio. I met her last year on—”

  “You shouldn’t go on your own. I’ll go too.”

  “You have Tranquillo Cortez to worry about.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m just sitting here waiting. But my car’s still at my house. Can you pick me up on the way?”

  “Sure. Give me a couple hours to go see my dog.”

  “Anything on the GRASP files?”

  “Yeah, I picked them up yesterday before the shit hit the fan with you. The professor gave me a thumb drive. I printed hard copies for you before I left work this morning.”

  “Good. Did you take a look?”

  “Not a deep dive. I did see there was a murder two days before Daisy. But the suspect was in custody before Daisy disappeared.”

  “We should probably look at it anyway.”

  “I ordered the book last night. Before heading up to you, I’ll see if it�
��s landed.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Good.”

  “And Renée?”

  “Yes?”

  “You saved my life yesterday. When I was in that cage…all I could think about was my daughter and her being alone…and all the things I was going to miss being with her for…anyway, thank you. It’s not much but…yeah, thank you.”

  Ballard nodded.

  “You know what I was thinking about, Harry? I was thinking about all the cases that would never get solved if you were gone. You still have work to do.”

  “I guess. Maybe.”

  “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Ballard disconnected and rolled off the bed. She started getting ready to go see her dog.

  39

  Bosch was waiting in front of the SFPD headquarters when Ballard pulled up in her van. He eyed the boards on the roof racks as he approached and opened the door. Ballard noticed that the bruise under his eye was now a deep purple and he had a row of butterfly sutures on his upper left cheek.

  Bosch got in and checked out the back of the van while pulling his seatbelt over his shoulder.

  “Is this like a Scooby-Doo van or something?” he asked. “The surfboards and stuff?”

  “No,” Ballard said. “But I thought if I brought my city ride, our guy might see it and rabbit before the interview.”

  “You have a point.”

  “Besides, it saved me having to go into the station. I called to check on the ZooToo murder book and it hasn’t landed yet. On Saturdays they cut the courier runs in half.”

  “‘ZooToo’?”

  “It was the name of the tattoo shop where the murder went down.”

  “Got it.”

  “So, do you think it was wise to be standing out front of the police station like that?”

  “If you’re not safe at a police station, then where are you safe? Anyway, how do you want to handle this guy?”

  Ballard had been thinking about that for the thirty minutes it took her to get from Hollywood to San Fernando.

  “This guy isn’t going to know what this is about,” she said. “So I’m thinking we identify ourselves upfront and draw him in with the Good Samaritan play.”

  “‘Good Samaritan play’?” Bosch said.

  “Come on, you must’ve done it a million times. Make the guy think he’s helping the police. Draw him in and lock in his story, then turn it upside down. He goes from hero to zero.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Got it,” he said. “We always called that the rope a dope.”

  “Same thing,” Ballard said.

  They discussed the play further as Ballard drove across the north end of the Valley toward Canoga Park, the community where more than half of the world’s legally sanctioned pornography production was located.

  They arrived at Beatrice Beaupre’s unmarked warehouse twenty-five minutes before Kurt Pascal was due. Beaupre opened the studio door. She was black with startling green eyes that Ballard thought were probably contacts. The short dreadlocks were new since Ballard had last seen her. She looked past Ballard at Bosch and frowned.

  “You didn’t tell me you were bringing somebody,” she said.

  “This is my partner on the case,” Ballard said. “Detective Harry Bosch.”

  Bosch nodded but remained quiet.

  “Well, just as long as we’re clear,” Beaupre said. “I run a business here and I don’t want any trouble. To me, a man means trouble. We already have one coming in, so you, Harry Bosch, you chill out.”

  Bosch held his hands up in surrender.

  “You’re the boss,” he said.

  “Damn right,” Beaupre said. “Only reason I’m doing this and putting my neck out is because your partner saved my skinny ass from death’s door last year. I owe her and I’m going to pay up today.”

  Bosch looked at Ballard with a raised eyebrow.

  “She saves more people than John the Baptist,” he said.

  The joke fell on deaf ears with Beaupre but Ballard stifled a laugh.

  They walked past the door to the room Ballard remembered as being Beaupre’s office and continued down a hall, passing a framed poster for a movie called Operation Desert Stormy, which depicted porn star Stormy Daniels straddling a missile in a bathing suit. Ballard scanned the credits for Beaupre’s name but didn’t see it.

  “Was that one of your movies?” she asked.

  “I wish,” Beaupre said. “All of Stormy’s flicks are in big-time demand. I put the poster up for appearances, you know. Doesn’t hurt if people think you have a part of that action.”

  They entered a room at the end of the hallway that was carpeted and had a stripper pole on a one-foot-high stage. There were several folding chairs lined against one wall.

  “This is where we do casting,” Beaupre said. “But most of the time it’s for the women. Men, we go off reels and reps. But I figure this is where you should talk to the guy. If he shows.”

  “Do you have reason to think he won’t?” Bosch asked.

  “It’s a flaky business,” Beaupre said. “People are unreliable. I don’t know anything about this guy. He could be a flake and a no-show. He could be right smack on time. We’ll see. Now I got a question. Am I supposed to be in here with you all?”

  “No, that’s not necessary,” Ballard said. “If you can send him back here when he arrives, we’ll take it from there.”

  “And no blowback on me, right?” Beaupre said.

  “No blowback on you,” Ballard said. “We have you covered.”

  “Good,” Beaupre said. “I’ll be in my office. The intercom buzz will go to me and then I’ll bring him to you.”

  She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Ballard looked at Bosch and tried to gauge what he was thinking about the setup. She couldn’t read him and was about to ask if he wanted to change the interview plan, when Beaupre stuck her head in through the doorway.

  “Imagine that, this guy’s an early bird,” she said. “You two ready?”

  Ballard nodded at Bosch and he nodded back.

  “Bring him in,” he said.

  Ballard looked around at the room. She quickly started moving chairs, putting two side by side and facing a third in the center.

  “I wish we had a table,” she said. “It will feel weird without a table.”

  “It’s better without one,” Bosch said. “He can’t hide his hands. They tell a lot.”

  Ballard was thinking about that when the door opened again and Beaupre led Kurt Pascal in.

  “This is Kurt Pascal,” she said. “And this is Renée and…is it Harry?”

  “Right,” Bosch said. “Harry.”

  Both Ballard and Bosch shook Pascal’s hand and Ballard signaled him to the single chair. He was wearing baggy polyester workout pants and a red pullover hoodie. He was shorter than Ballard had expected and the baggy clothes camouflaged his body shape. His long brown hair was streaked with a slash of red dye and tied up in a topknot.

  Pascal hesitated before sitting down.

  “You want me to sit or do you want to see my stuff?” he asked.

  He hooked his thumbs into the elastic band of his pants.

  “We want you to sit,” Ballard said.

  She and Bosch both waited for Pascal to sit first, then Ballard sat down. Bosch remained on his feet, leaning his hands on the back of the empty folding chair so he could cut off any move Pascal made toward the room’s door.

  “Okay, I’m sitting,” Pascal said. “What do you want to know?”

  Ballard pulled her badge and held it up to him.

  “Mr. Pascal, Ms. Beaupre doesn’t know this but we’re not really movie producers,” she said. “I’m Detective Ballard, LAPD, and this is my partner, Detective Bosch.”

  “What the fuck?” Pascal said.

  He started to stand. Bosch immediately took his hands off his chair and stood straight, ready to keep Pascal from the door.

  “Sit down,
Mr. Pascal,” Ballard ordered. “We need your help.”

  Pascal froze. It seemed to be the first time in his life that anyone had asked him for help.

  He then slowly sat back down.

  “What’s this about?” he asked.

  “We’re trying to find a man—a dangerous man—and we think you might be able to help,” Ballard said. “You have a past association with him.”

  “Who?”

  “Wilson Gayley.”

  Pascal started to laugh and then shook his head.

  “Are you fucking with me?” he asked.

  “No, Mr. Pascal, we’re not fucking with you,” Ballard said.

  “Wilson Gayley is dangerous? What did he do? Run a stop sign? Flip off a nun?”

  “We can’t share the details of the case we’re working. It’s a confidential investigation and anything you tell us will be confidential as well. Do you know where he is at the moment?”

  “What? No. I haven’t seen that guy in a couple years, at least. Somebody had a party for him when he got out of prison, and I saw him there. But that was like three years ago.”

  “So you have no idea where he is these days?”

  “I have an idea where he isn’t and that’s in L.A. I mean, if he was here, I would have seen him around, you know?”

  Pascal shoved his hands into the front pocket of the hoodie. Ballard realized he could hide his hands even without a table.

  “How did you know Wilson Gayley in the first place?” Bosch asked.

  Pascal shrugged like he was not sure how to answer.

  “He was making street movies,” he said. “Shorts. He had a name for them. It was like a series. I think it was called Hollywood Whores or something like that. He hired me in a room like this after seeing my package, you know? And then we went driving around, and he’d pay street girls to get in and fuck me while he filmed it. That was how I got my start in the business, you know?”