“That’s not going to happen.”
“Then I’m sorry.”
“I got your name, Roosevelt. If anything happens, it’ll go in the report.”
“Make sure you spell it right. Just like the president.”
Ballard next went up to the acute-care ward, where Ramone was being treated. She was disappointed to learn that, while the patient had been conscious and semi-alert when transported from Hollywood Presbyterian, she had since been sedated and intubated after a setback in her condition. Choosing to find and interview Beaupre as the day’s priority had cost Ballard a chance to communicate with her victim. She nevertheless visited Ramone and took cell-phone photos as part of the continuing documentation of the depth of her injuries and treatment. She hoped someday to show them to a jury.
Afterward Ballard made a stop at the nursing desk on the ward and handed the duty nurse a stack of her business cards.
“Can you pass these around and keep one there by your phone?” she asked. “If anybody comes in to see the patient in three-oh-seven, I need to know. If you get any phone calls inquiring about her status, I need to know. Take a name and number and say you’ll get back to them. Then call me.”
“Is the patient in danger?”
“She was the subject of a vicious attack and left for dead. I checked with your security officer and got turned down on extra security. So all I’m saying is be vigilant.”
Ballard left then, hoping that putting the word in the duty nurse’s ear might get some results. Hospital security would find it harder to resist internal safety concerns than those from the LAPD.
Back at the station by midnight, Ballard was walking down the rear hallway toward the D bureau as Jenkins came down the stairs from the roll-call room. They walked into the bureau side by side.
“Anything going on?” Ballard asked.
“All quiet on the western front,” Jenkins said.
He held up his hand and she put the city-ride’s keys in his palm.
“Ramona look at a six-pack?” Jenkins asked.
“Nope,” Ballard said. “Missed my chance. I’m pissed at myself. I should’ve been there when she was awake.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. Brain injury like that — chances are, she’s not going to remember a thing. And if she did, a defense attorney would go to town on the ID.”
“Maybe.”
“So you going to go up the coast now?”
“Not yet. I want to write up a summary on my witness from tonight.”
“Man, you act like this place still pays overtime or something.”
“I wish.”
“Well, get it done and get out of here.”
“I will. What about you?”
“Munroe says I have to write up a report about the witness bus from the other night. Somebody filed a notice of intent to sue, said they suffered pain and humiliation because they were locked up in a jail bus. I have to say they were never locked up.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“I wish.”
They went off to their respective corners of the room. Ballard got right to work on a witness statement drawn from the interview with Beatrice Beaupre, putting special emphasis on the revelation that Thomas Trent often referred to his home as the upside-down house. It would be ready to go into a charging package if Ramona Ramone ever IDed Trent.
Thirty minutes later, she completed the report. She was also finished for the night but then remembered she wanted to check the property report on the Dancers case. She went to her filing cabinet and looked through the thick ream of documents she had printed while going through Chastain’s files. She located the preliminary evidence report and took it back to her desk. The evidence list was seven pages long. It wasn’t the official evidence report from forensics but the ledger that an RHD detective would keep while at the crime scene. It served as a reference for the investigators on any evidence that had been collected while they awaited the official report. Ballard went through it twice but saw nothing listed that resembled the small black button she had seen Chastain scoop into an evidence bag. She became convinced that her former partner had taken evidence from the scene without documenting it. It was something small and something that sent him off the reservation, conducting his own investigation. An investigation that got him killed.
Ballard sat there motionless as she ran the image of Chastain at the crime scene through her mind. Her attention was then drawn to the other side of the room when she noticed Lieutenant Munroe enter the bureau from the front hallway and head toward where Jenkins was sitting.
Ballard thought Munroe was probably going to send her partner out on a call. She grabbed the evidence report and got up to go listen, in case it was a situation in which Jenkins would need a backup. She grabbed her rover as well and headed their way.
Though the desks Jenkins and Ballard used were in diagonally opposite corners of the squad room, there wasn’t a direct pathway between them. Ballard had to walk down an aisle along the front of the room and then down a second aisle to come up behind Munroe. As she approached, she saw an uncomfortable look on her partner’s face as he looked up at the watch commander, and she realized that Munroe wasn’t handing out an assignment.
“... all I’m saying is, you’re the lead, you call the shots, put her on the leash and—”
The rover in Ballard’s hand started broadcasting a call. Munroe stopped and turned to see Ballard standing there.
“And what, L-T?” she said.
Munroe’s face momentarily showed his shock and then he threw a glance back at Jenkins, registering his betrayal at not being warned of her approach.
“Look, Ballard... ” he said.
“So you want me on the leash?” Ballard asked. “Or are you just the messenger?”
Munroe held up both hands, as if trying to stop a physical rush from her.
“Ballard, listen to me, you... I... I didn’t know you were here,” he stammered. “You’re supposed to be off. I mean, if I knew you were here, I would’ve said the same thing to you as I said to Jenks.”
“Which was what?” she asked.
“Look, there are people who are afraid you’re going to fuck things up, Ballard, afraid you’re going to cross a line on this Chastain thing. It’s not your case, and you need to stand the fuck down.”
“What people, L-T? Olivas? Is he worried about me or himself?”
“Look, I’m not naming names. I’m just—”
“You’re naming me. You just went to my partner and said, ‘Put Ballard on a leash.’”
“Like you just said, I’m only the messenger here, Detective. And the message is delivered. That’s it.”
He turned and headed toward the rear hallway, taking the long way to the watch office rather than having to pass by Ballard.
Ballard looked at Jenkins when they were alone.
“Asshole,” she said.
“Fucking coward,” Jenkins said. “Took the long way back.”
“What would you have said to him if I hadn’t walked up?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I would have said, ‘You got something to say to Ballard, tell her yourself.’ Maybe I would have said, ‘Fuck off.’”
“I hope so, partner.”
“So what exactly have you been doing that’s got their balls twisted?”
“That’s the thing. I’m not sure. But that’s the second socalled message I’ve gotten today. Some guy from Majors went up to Ventura and then down to the beach to find me and tell me the same thing. And I don’t even know what I did.”
Jenkins scrunched his face up in suspicion and worry. He wasn’t buying that she didn’t know what she had done. He was worried she would keep doing it.
“Watch yourself, kid. These people don’t fuck around.”