“You want me to leave and come back?” Ballard asked. “How long?”
“Give me at least a couple hours,” Stanfield said. “If I get through it quicker, I’ll call.”
Ballard stood up.
“Okay, but remember,” she said. “Keep this under the table. Don’t tell anyone what case it is or what you’re doing. And if you get a match, tell only me.”
Stanfield put the magnifying glass down on the lab table and looked at her.
“Are you trying to scare me?” she asked.
“No, but I want you to be cautious. If you get a name and it’s the name I’m thinking it will be, then you’ll understand what I’m saying.”
Ballard didn’t want to share her investigative theory with Stanfield prior to the work. She didn’t want to infect her conclusions with any preconceived ideas of who the print would match.
“Holy shit,” Stanfield said. “Well, thanks a lot, Renée. You know I really liked working here.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Ballard said. “Just see what you get and I’ll be back.”
40
Ballard used the time to walk over to the print shed that was located behind Piper Tech. Knowing how citizens were often treated when they attempted to pick up their impounded and printed vehicles, she half expected a delay in the paperwork from FID releasing her van. But it was ready to go. She wasn’t wrong about her expectations about its condition, however.
The first clue was the driver’s door handle, which was still dusted with black fingerprint powder. She opened the door and found the driver’s compartment bombed with powder as well. She knew from crime scene experience that the black powder could ruin clothes and be impossible to get out with home car-washing. She went back to the garage’s office and angrily demanded that the van be returned in drivable condition. This resulted in a stare-down with the garage manager, but he changed his demeanor when Ballard produced her badge. He dispatched two of his garage greasers with a high-powered vacuum, a roll of paper towels, and a bottle of industrial-strength cleaner to the van.
Ballard stood by, watched the work, and pointed out every spot they missed. After an hour she thought about calling Polly Stanfield but she knew that would only annoy her. She decided to check in at Hollywood Detectives instead and called Lieutenant McAdams’s direct line.
“Ballard, what are you doing awake?” he asked. “I have you back on the schedule tonight.”
“I’ll be there, L-T, don’t worry,” she said. “Just checking in. What’s happening in the Six?”
“Only thing I got going is an assist with the feds. They got a takedown team surrounding some fool holed up in the Batcave.”
That was a reference to a cave up in Bronson Canyon that had been used during the filming of the 1960s Batman television show.
“What do they want him for?”
“A double-bagger in Texas. Killed two armored-car guards a couple years ago and lammed it over here.”
“What are we doing?”
“Crowd and traffic control.”
Ballard knew it was the guy she had spooked with Compton. She wondered if she would escape with no blowback from the feds if they successfully brought him down at the Batcave. Just then, she got a call-waiting buzz on her phone. She checked and saw it was Stanfield.
“Hey L-T, I have a call coming in. I gotta go.”
“Okay, Ballard, go.”
She disconnected and switched over.
“Polly?”
“I got a hit on that thumb. It’s a cop. What did you get me into, Renée?”
41
Ballard stepped out of an interrogation room at the Metropolitan Detention Center, crossed the wide hallway, and entered the control center. She looked at the monitor for the interrogation room. Lieutenant Olivas sat in the chair facing the overhead camera, his arms pulled into a locked position behind his back. He knew she was looking at him and had his head tilted back. He scowled at the camera.
Ballard raised her phone and took a photo of the monitor. She then texted the shot to Rogers Carr with a message.
I need help. He won’t talk to me.
As she expected, it didn’t take long for Carr to respond.
WTF?!!! Where are you?
Her reply was terse. She wasn’t interested in a text debate. She needed Carr to come to the jail.
MDC. You coming? I want to flip him.
There was no response. Minutes dragged by and she knew Carr was debating with himself whether to come over, whether to risk his career and the enmity of the department by getting involved in the attempted takedown of a prized lieutenant. Ballard tried one more time to coax him.
I have the evidence.
Another minute went by. It felt like an hour. Then Carr returned.
On my way.
Ballard realized she had been holding her breath. She released it in relief and turning to the two officers monitoring the screens told them that Carr was on his way.
She was still in the control center when Carr was announced and he entered the hallway fifteen minutes later. Ballard stepped out to meet him. His forehead was slick with a film of sweat. That told her that he had covered the three blocks on foot and must have left the PAB without hesitation after their text conversation. He glanced through the square window on the door to interrogation room A and looked at Olivas. He then quickly turned away as though he couldn’t take what he saw. He focused on Ballard and spoke in a low, controlled voice.
“What the fuck, Ballard? How the hell did you get him in here?”
“I lured him out of the PAB. I told him I had someone here who was ready to confess.”
“And then you fucking arrest him? On what evidence?”
He said the last word too loud, almost as a shriek. He brought his hand to his mouth and checked the officers in the control center, then dropped back down to a whisper.
“Listen to me, you are moving too fast,” he said. “Everything I have? It points to Chastain, not Olivas. Not a fucking RHD lieutenant. Do you know what you’re doing here? You are committing career suicide. You need to stop this right now.”
“I can’t,” Ballard said. “I know it wasn’t Chastain. He took measures because he knew it was a cop. That’s why Olivas killed him.”
“What measures? Ballard, what evidence do you have? You are letting your issue with Olivas take this over and—”
“Kenny took evidence from the crime scene at the Dancers. Evidence that it was a cop.”
“What are you talking about? What did he take?”
“A piece of a holster that came loose when the shooter pulled his gun. I was there. I saw him take it. That and the wire — he knew it was a cop.”
Carr looked off for a moment as he composed his thoughts. He then leaned down and in close to Ballard.
“Listen to me. What you saw was Chastain covering his own tracks. He was the shooter and you have fucked this up beyond belief. Now I’m going to go in there and talk to Olivas. And I’m going to try to salvage this and save your job.”
Carr signaled to one of the officers in the control center to unlock the door. He then looked back at Ballard.
“If you’re lucky, you’ll end up riding a bike on the boardwalk,” he said. “But at least you’ll still have a badge.”
“You don’t understand,” Ballard protested. “There’s evidence. I have—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Carr said, cutting her off. “I’m going in.”
The jail officer walked over to a wall unit of small lockers. He opened one and removed the key from its lock.
“Okay, you need to put your weapons in here,” he said. “Sidearm, backup, knife, everything.”