Dark Sacred Night

by Michael Connelly

  “And that’s this guy Tranquillo Cortez?” Boyce said.

  “Somebody working for him,” Bosch said.

  “Cortez is a shot caller now,” Lourdes said. “He’s top rank in the gang.”

  The sheriff’s men looked at each other and nodded.

  “All right,” Lannark said. “That’s going to be it for now. We’ll finish up here and I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.”

  On the way out of the center courtyard to the gated entrance, Bosch scanned the concrete, looking for blood drops. He didn’t see any and soon was in the passenger seat of the city car assigned to Lourdes.

  “So, what do you think?” Lourdes said as she pulled the car away from the curb. “Did we fuck up?”

  “I don’t know,” Bosch said. “Maybe. Bottom line is Perez refused protection.”

  “You really think somebody leaked to the SanFers?”

  “I don’t know about that either. We’ll look at it for sure. If there was a leak, we’ll find it. It could have been Martin saying the wrong thing to the wrong person. We may never know how it happened.”

  Bosch thought about the judge who had signed the warrant. He had asked Bosch several questions about the unnamed source in the affidavit, but it seemed he was only being thorough, and he had never specifically requested the real name. Judge Landry had been on the bench at least twenty years and was a second-generation jurist, having run for the superior court spot his father had occupied for thirty years until his death. It seemed unlikely that information in the warrant or discussed in his chambers would somehow have gotten to Tranquillo Cortez or any of the SanFers. The leak, intentional or otherwise, had to have come from somewhere else. Bosch started thinking about Yaro, the LAPD gang detective assigned to be on hand for the search. All gang detectives had sources in the gangs. The steady flow of intel from the gang was vital and sometimes information had to be traded in exchange.

  Lourdes was working her way up to the 10 freeway so they could head west and back toward San Fernando.

  “It seemed like you were looking for something when we were walking out,” she said. “Anything specific?”

  “Yeah,” Bosch said. “Blood.”

  “Blood? Whose blood?”

  “The shooter’s. Did you work out the ricochet angle in the shower?”

  “No, I couldn’t get in there because you men were clogging up the whole bathroom. I stood back. You think the shooter got hit with the ricochet?”

  “It’s possible. Might explain the yelling the witness heard after the shooting. The sheriffs were thinking it hit Perez, but the angles didn’t look right to me. I’m thinking the bullet came low, went between Perez’s legs and hit our shooter. Maybe in the leg.”

  “That would be good.”

  “As soon as they roll that body, they’ll know, but we might have a chance at getting ahead of them on this. You think your boy J-Rod has an idea who the SanFers use these days to do their patching?”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  She pulled her phone and called her cousin Jose Rodriguez, who was the SFPD’s resident gang intel expert. By law, every hospital emergency room and legitimate physician had to report to authorities any case involving a gunshot wound, even if the injury is claimed by the victim to be accidental. This meant that criminal organizations had illegitimate doctors on call whom they could rely on to do medical patchwork at any time of the day or night and to keep quiet about it afterward. If Martin Perez’s killer was hit with the ricocheting bullet, then it was likely that he and his accomplices would have gone back to their own turf to seek medical attention. The SanFers’ turf was wide-ranging in the north valley and there was no shortage of shady doctors and clinics an injured man could go to. Bosch was hoping that J-Rod would be able to point them in the right direction.

  While Lourdes talked in Spanish to her cousin on the phone, Bosch considered for the first time the question that had been hanging since he’d gotten the call from Lannark. Had he gotten Martin Perez killed? It was the kind of weight no cop needed or wanted but it was a risk that came with every case. Asking questions could be dangerous. It could get people killed. Perez had been out of the gang for years, had a job, and was a productive member of society when Bosch approached him behind the shoe store and asked for a light. Bosch believed he had taken appropriate precautions but there were always variables and potential risks. Perez hadn’t voluntarily pointed the finger at Tranquillo Cortez. Bosch had used age-old police tactics and squeezed the information out by threat. It was from that decision that Bosch’s guilt came.

  Lourdes finished her call and reported to Bosch.

  “He’s going to put together a list,” she said. “He doesn’t know how current it will be but it’s doctors who have been go-to guys for the SanFers and the eMe.”

  “When do we get it?” Bosch asked.

  “He’ll have it for us by the time we get back to the station.”

  “All right, good.”

  They drove in silence for a while. Bosch kept going back to his decision to squeeze Martin Perez. His review of it had him still doing the same thing.

  “You know the irony of this?” Lourdes said.

  “What irony?” Bosch responded.

  “Well, Perez led us to that garage and we found the bullets but they were no good for comparison purposes. The reinvestigation would have probably ended there this morning.”

  “True. Even if we got a metallurgy match, the D.A. wouldn’t have gotten too excited about it.”

  “No way. But now with Perez getting taken out, there’s a case. And if we get the shooter, it may get us to Cortez. That’s the definition of irony, right?”

  “I’d have to ask my daughter. She’s good at that stuff.”

  “Well, it’s like they say, the cover-up is worse than the crime. It always gets them in the end.”

  “Hopefully that’s how it works here. I want to put the cuffs on Cortez for this.”

  Bosch’s phone started buzzing and he pulled it out. The caller was unknown.

  “They rolled the body,” he predicted.

  He accepted the call. It was Lannark.

  “Bosch, we pulled the body out of the shower,” he said. “Perez wasn’t hit on the ricochet.

  “Really,” Bosch said, acting surprised.

  “Yeah, so we’re thinking, maybe the shooter got hit by his own bullet. Maybe the leg or the balls—if we’re lucky.”

  “That would be true justice.”

  “Yeah, so we’re going to do hospital checks, but we figure the gang behind this probably has its own people for situations like this.”

  “Probably.”

  “Maybe you could help us out and get us some names of people we can check on.”

  “We can do that. We’re still on the road but we’ll see what we can come up with.”

  “Call me back, okay?”

  “As soon as we have something.”

  Bosch disconnected and looked over at Lourdes.

  “No bullet in the victim?” she asked.

  Bosch stifled a yawn. He was beginning to feel the effects of the all-nighter he had spent with Ballard in Hollywood.

  “No bullet,” he said. “And they want our help.”

  “Of course they do,” Lourdes said.

  Ballard

  14

  Ballard awoke to the sound of panicked voices and an approaching siren so loud she could not hear the ocean. She sat up, registering that it was not a dream, and pulled the inside zipper down on her tent. Looking out, she reacted to the sharp diamonds of light reflecting off the dark blue surface of the ocean. Using her hand to shield her eyes, she looked for the source of the commotion and saw Aaron Hayes, the lifeguard assigned to the Rose Station tower, on his knees in the sand, huddled over a man’s body lying supine on the rescue board. A group of people were standing or kneeling beside them, some onlookers, some the fretful and crying friends and loved ones of the man on the board.

  Ballard climbed out of the tent, t
old her dog, Lola, to stay at her post in front of it, and walked quickly across the sand toward the rescue effort. She pulled her badge as she approached.

  “Police officer, police officer!” she shouted. “I need everybody to stand back and give the lifeguard room to work.”

  No one moved. They turned and stared at her. She wore after-swim sweats and her hair was still wet from that morning’s surf and shower.

  “Move back!” she said with more authority. “Now! You are not helping the situation.”

  She got to the group and started pushing people into a semicircle formation ten feet back from the board.

  “You too,” she said to a young woman who was crying hysterically and holding the drowning victim’s hand. “Ma’am, let them work. They are trying to save his life.”

  Ballard gently pulled the woman away and turned her toward one of her friends, who grabbed her into a hug. Ballard checked the parking lot and saw two EMTs running toward them, a stretcher between them, their progress slowed by their work boots slogging through the sand.

  “They’re coming, Aaron,” she said. “Keep it going.”

  When Aaron raised his head to get a breath, Ballard saw that the lips of the man on the board were blue.

  The EMTs arrived and took over from Aaron, who rolled away and stayed on the sand, panting for breath. He was wet from the rescue. He watched intently as the EMTs worked, first intubating and pumping water out of the victim’s lungs, then adding a breathing bag.

  Ballard squatted next to Aaron. They had a casual romantic relationship, sometime lovers with no commitment beyond the time they were together. Aaron was a beautiful man with a V-shaped, muscular body and angular face, his short hair and eyebrows burned almost white by the sun.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “He got caught in a rip,” Aaron whispered back. “Took me too long to get out of it once I got him on the board. Shit, the warning signs were out, up and down the beach.”

  Aaron sat forward when he saw the EMTs react to getting a pulse on the victim. They started moving quickly and transferred the man to the stretcher.

  “Let’s help them,” Ballard said.

  She and Hayes moved across the sand and took sides on the stretcher behind the EMTs. They lifted and moved quickly across the sand to the parking lot, where the ambulance waited. One of the EMTs carried his share of the weight one-handed while continuing to squeeze the air bag.

  Three minutes later the rescue ambulance was gone and Ballard and Hayes stood there, hands on their hips and winded. Soon the family and friends caught up, and Aaron told them which hospital the victim was being taken to. The hysterical woman hugged him and then followed the others to their cars.

  “That was weird to see,” Ballard said.

  “Yeah,” Hayes said. “Third one for me this month. The riptides have been off the charts.”

  Ballard was thinking of something else, of a time many years before on a beach far away. The image of a broken surfboard carried in by the waves. Young Renée searching the diamonds on the surface for her father.

  “You okay?” Hayes asked.

  Ballard came out of the memory and noticed the strange look on his face.

  “Fine,” she said.

  She checked her watch. Most days she tried to get six hours in the tent after a morning on the water, whether it be surfing or paddling. But the commotion from the rescue had gotten her up after just four. The adrenaline rush with the rescue and run across the beach guaranteed she would not be going back to sleep.

  She decided on an early start to work. There was follow-up to do on John the Baptist and several boxes of shake cards still to get through, whether or not the man from the Moonlight Mission turned out to be a valid suspect.

  “Don’t you have a debriefing now or something?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” he said. “The beach captain will come interview me and we’ll write it up.”

  “Let me know if you need anything from me.”

  “Thanks. Will do.”

  She hesitantly gave him a hug, then turned and walked back toward her tent to collect her things and her dog. The memory of Hawaii returned as she looked out at the sea: her lost father and the need to be by the water’s edge, waiting for something that could never be.

  15

  Before heading into the station, Ballard parked her van on Selma a half block from the Moonlight Mission. Through the iron bars of the gate surrounding the back parking area she could see John the Baptist’s van. It meant he was presumably home.

  Bosch had gotten a look inside the van during the traffic stop and had shared the cell phone photos he had taken. There had been nothing of an incriminating nature. Not that they would have expected it after nine years. But she had noticed that the parking enclosure at the rear of the mission house gave the van close access to the back door. If the van was backed in, a body could be transferred from it and into the house quickly with only a split-second exposure outside. Additionally, she was curious about the stand-alone garage on the other side of the parking apron. Both times she had seen the van, it had been in the driveway and not in the garage. Why wasn’t the garage used? What was in there that prevented the van from being parked inside?

  Ballard’s instinct about John McMullen was that he wasn’t the guy. He had seemed sincere in his defense and his complaint during their confrontation early that morning. Detectives develop a sixth sense about character and often had to rely on these fleeting takes to judge people. She had shared her take on McMullen with Bosch as they drove away following the roust. Bosch didn’t disagree but said the preacher still needed to be cleared beyond a quick search of his van before they moved on.

  Now she was sitting in her own van, looking at the Moonlight Mission and needing to get a look inside. She could wait and do it with Bosch but she had no idea when he would be available. She had sent him a text checking on his status but had gotten no reply.

  Ballard’s rover was in its charging slot back at the station. She didn’t like the idea of going in alone and without that electronic link to the mother ship, but the option of waiting made her even more uncomfortable. Seeing the drowning man and being reminded of her father had put her on edge. She needed to crowd out those thoughts and knew that making this move would do it. Work was always the distraction. She could lose herself in the work.

  She pulled her phone and called the inside line to the watch office. It was almost five and the PM watch shift was on. A lieutenant named Hannah Chavez picked up the call.

  “It’s Renée Ballard. I’m following up on something from the late show and don’t have a rover with me. Just wanted to let you know I’m going to be code six at the Moonlight Mission at Selma and Cherokee. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, can you send a backup?”

  “Roger that, Ballard. But while I got you, you handled the DB up in the hills the other night, right?”

  “Yeah, that was me. It was accidental.”

  “Right, what I heard. But we just got a B and E call from that location. The burglary table has checked out for the day and I was going to shelve it till tomorrow but now I’m thinking—”

  “You might want me to handle it.”

  “Read my mind, Ballard.”

  “Not really, but I’ll cruise over after I clear the mission.”

  “I’ll tell my guys to hang till you get there.”

  “How’d we get the call?”

  “The family had arranged for some bio cleaners to get in there after the death. They apparently found the place ransacked and called it in.”

  “Roger that. Remember, back me up in an hour if I don’t hit you back.”

  “Moonlight Mission—you got it.”

  Ballard climbed out of the driver’s seat and into the back of her van. Last week’s dry cleaning was on hangers on an equipment hook. She changed into what she considered her third-string work outfit, a chocolate Van Heusen blazer with a chalk pinstripe over the usual white blouse and black slac
ks. She emerged from the back of the van, locked it, and headed down the street to the mission.

  She just wanted to take a look around inside, get a sense of the place, and maybe brace McMullen again. The direct approach was called for. She walked in through the front gate and up the steps to the porch. A sign on the door said WELCOME, so she opened it and entered without knocking.

  Ballard stepped into a wide entry area with arched passages to rooms to the right and left and a wide, winding staircase in front of her. She walked into the center and waited a moment, expecting McMullen or someone else to appear.

  Nothing.

  She looked through the archway to the right and saw that the room was lined with couches, with a single chair in the middle, where the facilitator of a group discussion might sit. She turned to check the other room. Banners with Bible quotations and images of Jesus hung side by side on the far wall. At the center of the room was what looked like a freestanding sink with a crucifix rising from the porcelain sill where a faucet was intended to be.

  Ballard stepped into the room and looked into the sink. It was half filled with water. She looked up at the banners and realized that not all the images were of Jesus. At least two featured drawings of the man she had met that morning.

  Ballard turned to go back into the entrance hall and almost walked into McMullen. She startled, stepped back, and then quickly recovered.

  “Mr. McMullen,” she said. “You snuck up on me.”

  “I did not,” McMullen said. “And in here I am Pastor McMullen.”

  “Okay. Pastor McMullen.”

  “Why are you here, Detective?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  Ballard turned and gestured toward the sink.

  “This is where you do your work,” she said.

  “It’s not work,” he said. “This is where I save souls for Jesus Christ.”

  “Well, where is everybody? The house seems empty.”

  “Each night I seek a new flock. Anyone I bring in to feed and clothe must be on their own by this time. This is just a way station on the journey to salvation.”