“Okay, let me sign the COC and get over there before they leave,” she said.
The FAU was just down the hall and Ballard entered with ten minutes to spare. At first she thought she was too late — she didn’t see anyone. And then she heard someone sneeze.
“Hello?”
“Sorry,” someone said. “Coming out.”
A man in a black polo shirt with the FAU logo stepped out from one of the gun storage racks that lined one wall of the unit. The unit had collected so many varieties of firearms over the years that they were displayed in rows of racks that could be closed together like an accordion.
The man was carrying a feather duster.
“Just doing a little housekeeping,” he said. “We wouldn’t want Sirhan’s gun to get dusty. It’s part of history.”
Ballard just stared for a moment.
“Mitch Elder,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”
Ballard identified herself.
“Are you about to leave at the end of the tac alert?” she asked.
“Supposed to,” Elder said. “But... whaddaya got?”
It had been Ballard’s experience that gun nuts always liked a challenge.
“We had a homicide this morning. Gunshot. I have a casing and was looking for a make on the weapon used, maybe a NIBIN run.”
The National Integrated Ballistic Information Network was a database that stored characteristics of bullets and casings used in crimes. Each carried markings that could be matched to specific weapons and compared crime to crime. Casings were a better bet than bullets because bullets often fragmented or mushroomed on impact, making comparisons more difficult.
Ballard held up the clear evidence bag with the casing in it as bait. Elder’s eyes fixed on it. He didn’t take long.
“Well, let’s see what you got,” he said.
Ballard handed him the bag and then followed him to a workstation. He put on gloves, removed the casing, and studied it under a lighted magnifying glass. He turned it in his fingers, studying the rim for marks left by the weapon that had fired it.
“Good extractor marking,” he finally said. “I think you’re looking for a Walther... but we’ll see. This will take a little time for me to encode. If you want to go get breakfast, I’ll be here when you get back.”
“No, I’m good,” Ballard said. “I have to make a call.”
“Then maybe we can get breakfast after we’re done.”
“Uh... I think I’ll probably need to keep moving with the case. But thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’m going to find an empty desk.”
She walked away, almost shaking her head. She was annoyed with herself for adding the thanks at the end of the rejection.
She found a workspace that was completely bare except for a phone on the desk. She pulled her own phone and called Robinson-Reynolds, clearly waking him up.
“Ballard, what is it?”
He seemed annoyed.
“You told me to update you no matter the time.”
“I did. Whaddaya got?”
“I think our shooting was a homicide — a murder — and I want to stick with it.”
“Ballard, you know it needs to go to—”
“I know the protocol but West Bureau is running with a big media case and I think they would welcome me taking it off their hands — at least until they come up for air on the double they’ve got.”
“You’re not a homicide detective.”
“I know, but I was. I can handle this, L-T. We’ve already conducted witness interviews and I’ve been to Forensics and now I’m at Firearms running NIBIN on the shell we found.”
“You shouldn’t have done any of that. You should have turned it over as soon as you knew it wasn’t an accidental.”
“West Bureau was busy; I ran with it. We can turn it over now but they won’t jump on it, and hours and maybe days will go by before they do.”
“It’s not my call, Ballard. It’s their call. Lieutenant Fuentes over there.”
“Can you call him and grease this for me, L-T? He’ll probably be happy we want to take it off his hands.”
“There is no ‘we’ on this, Ballard. Besides, you are supposed to be off duty starting ten minutes ago. I got no overtime for you.”
“I’m not doing this for OT. No greenies on this.”
“Greenies” was a reference to the color of the 3 x 5 cards that had to be filled out and signed by a supervisor authorizing overtime work.
“No greenies?” Robinson-Reynolds asked.
“Nope,” Ballard promised.
“What about the Midnight Men, and where is Moore in all of this? You’re supposed to be working together.”
“She stayed at the station to start putting together the murder book and writing up witness statements. Nothing came up on the Midnight Men but I’ll still be working that. I’m not dropping it.”
“Then that’s a lot on your plate.”
“I wouldn’t ask for this if I couldn’t handle my plate.”
There was a pause before Robinson-Reynolds made a decision.
“Okay, I’ll make the call to Fuentes. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, L-T.”
The lieutenant disconnected first and Ballard walked back over to Elder’s workstation. He was gone. She looked around and saw him sitting at a computer terminal by the window that looked out on the 10 freeway. It meant he was on the NIBIN database. She walked over.
“Ballard, you’ve got something here,” Elder said.
“Really?” Ballard said. “What?”
“Another case. The bullet is linked to another murder. Almost ten years ago up in the Valley. A guy got shot in a robbery. The shells match. Same gun was used. A Walther P-twenty-two.”
“Wow.”
Ballard felt a cold finger go down her spine.
“What’s the case number?” she asked.
Elder dictated a number off the computer screen. Ballard grabbed a pen out of a cup next to the computer terminal and wrote the number in her notebook.
“What’s the vic’s name?” she asked.
“Lee, Albert, DOD two-two-eleven.”
She wrote it all down.
“It’s an open case?” she asked.
“Open-unsolved,” Elder said. “An RHD case.”
Robbery-Homicide Division, Ballard’s old unit before she was unceremoniously shipped out to work the late show in Hollywood. But 2011 was before her time there.
“Does it say who the I/O is?” she asked.
“It does but it’s out of date,” Elder said. “Says here the investigating officer is Harry Bosch. But I knew him and he’s been retired awhile.”
Ballard froze for just a moment before managing to speak.
“I know,” she then said.
8
Ballard pulled to a stop in front of the house on Woodrow Wilson. She yawned and realized that going home first had probably been a mistake. Changing out of the stiff uniform was a good thing, but then dozing on the couch for an hour had somehow only served to underline her exhaustion, not knock it down.
She could hear music coming from the house as soon as she opened the car door. Something high velocity but more bluesy than she was used to hearing from Harry Bosch. And there were vocals. It made her think that maybe someone else was inside listening.
She knocked loudly on the door to be heard over the music. It was immediately cut off and then the door opened. It was Bosch.
“Well,” he said. “The prodigal detective.”
“What?” Ballard said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I just haven’t heard from you in a long time. Thought you forgot about me.”