The Late Show (Renée Ballard #1)(19)

“Good. I’m almost done with the burglary.”

He started to turn back toward his corner of the room.

“Don’t you ever want to see something through?” Ballard asked.

Jenkins didn’t turn around.

“Not anymore,” he said.

He kept going. Ballard then heard pounding on the door of the interview room. Zander Speights had just found out he had been locked in. Ballard went to the room with the receipt and opened the door.

“What the fuck? You lock me in here like I’m a prisoner or somethin’?”

“You’re not a prisoner, Mr. Speights. It’s department policy. We can’t have civilians roaming around the station.”

“Well, what’s going on? Where’s my phone?”

“I have your phone and another detective is coming to talk to you. It’s his case and he thinks you may be quite an important witness. In fact, you should talk to him about the reward. I’m sure he can help with that.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. So I need you to step back and have a seat and calm down. Here is the receipt for your phone. I need you to sign one copy and keep the second. Detective Chastain should be here in a few minutes.”

She pointed to his seat at the table and he started moving back from the door. He sat down and signed the receipt with a pen she handed him. She then took the signed copy and retreated, closing the door and locking it again.

Chastain got there five minutes later, walking in from the back hallway. He came directly to Ballard at her workstation.

“Where’s my witness?”

“Room two. His name is Zander Speights. And here’s the phone.”

She had already put it in a clear plastic evidence bag. She held it up to him and he took it.

“Okay, I’m going to take him.”

“Good luck.”

He turned and headed toward the interview room. Ballard stopped him.

“Oh, I also booked the waitress’s property, if you want it,” she said. “When I talked to the parents a little while ago, her father said her boyfriend was a drug pimp. Made her sell in the club.”

Chastain nodded.

“Interesting but probably not related,” he said.

“I didn’t think so,” Ballard said. “But the stuff’s there in property. If you don’t take it, it’ll get sent down with the next courier pickup.”

Chastain did another one-eighty to head toward the interview room but then once again walked back to her.

“How’s Lola doing?”

“She’s good.”

“Good.”

Then nothing. But Chastain didn’t move. Ballard finally looked up at him.

“Something else?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “You know, Renée, I’m really sorry about how everything worked out back then.”

Ballard looked at him for a moment before answering.

“It took you two years to say that?” she finally said.

He shrugged.

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“You’re totally forgetting something you told me back then.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about when you told me to back off the complaint. About how you said Olivas was going through a bad divorce and losing half his pension and not acting right and all of that bullshit—as if it made what he did to me okay.”

“I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

“You didn’t even keep my number in your phone, Kenny. You washed your hands of the whole thing. You’re not sorry about anything. You saw an opportunity back then and you took it. You had to throw me under the bus but you didn’t hesitate.”

“No, you’re wrong.”

“No, I’m right. If anything, you feel guilty, not sorry.”

She stood up at her desk to get on equal footing with him.

“Why the hell did I ever think you would do the right thing and back your own partner?” she said. “I was stupid to trust you, and here I am. But you know what? I’d rather be working the late show with Jenkins than be with you at RHD. At least I know what to expect from him.”

Chastain stared at her for a moment, color rising in his cheeks. Ballard remembered that he had an easy tell when people got to him. And she had gotten to him. Next came the awkward smile and the mouth wipe. She had hit the trifecta.

“Okay, then,” he finally said. “Thanks for the witness.”

He turned toward the interview room.

“Anytime,” Ballard called after him.

She grabbed the empty coffee cup off the desk and headed toward the squad room exit. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Chastain.





8

The hour of overtime she had worked pushed Ballard into the heavy morning traffic moving west toward the beaches. The army of service industry workers advanced from the east side to their minimum-wage-and-under jobs in hotels, restaurants, and neighborhoods where they could not afford to live. It took Ballard almost an hour to get to Venice. Her first stop was to pick up Lola from the overnight caretaker and then they headed to the beach.

The only good thing about the slog across the city was that the marine layer was already burning off by the time she got to the sand, and she could see that the bay was cobalt blue and as flat as glass. She parked in one of the lots by the north end of the boardwalk and went to the back of her van. She let Lola out, grabbed one of her tennis balls out of the basket by the wheel well, and threw it across the empty parking lot. The dog took off after it and had it in her mouth in three seconds. She dutifully brought it back to Ballard, who threw it a few more times before putting it back in the basket. The dog whined at having such a short game.