The Late Show (Renée Ballard #1)(38)

While she waited for the call to go through, she once again tried to decipher the name written on the slip of paper. It was impossible. But as soon as her call was answered, she realized who had called and left the message.

“Cardholder services. How can I help you?”

She heard an English-Indian accent—like from the men from Mumbai that she had spoken to on Mrs. Lantana’s phone the night before.

“May I speak to Irfan?”

“Which one? We have three.”

Ballard looked at the pink slip. It looked like it said Cohen. She turned the C to a K and thought she had it.

“Khan. Irfan Khan.”

“Hold the line, please.”

Thirty seconds later, a new voice came on the line and Ballard thought she recognized it.

“This is Detective Ballard, Los Angeles Police Department. You left a message for me.”

“Yes, Detective. We spoke on the phone a little over twenty-four hours ago. I tracked you down.”

“Yes, you did. Why?”

“Because I have received permission to share with you the intended delivery address of the attempted fraudulent purchase on the credit card that was stolen.”

“You got court approval?”

“No, my department head gave me approval. I went to him and said we should do this because you were very insistent, you see.”

“To be honest, I am surprised. Thank you for following up.”

“Not a problem. Happy to help.”

“What is the address, then?”

Khan gave her an apartment number and address on Santa Monica Boulevard and Ballard could tell it was not far from El Centro Avenue and the home of Leslie Anne Lantana. It was probably walking distance.

Ballard checked the urge to tell Khan that the chances of her being able to make an arrest on the case were hampered by the twenty-four-hour delay in getting the address. Instead, she thanked him for pursuing the matter with the department head and ended the call.

She then grabbed her rover and the key to the plain wrap and headed for the door.





14

The address that came from Mumbai corresponded to a run-down motel called the Siesta Village. It was a two-story U-shaped complex with parking inside the U, as well as a small pool and an office. A sign out front said FREE WIFI AND HBO. Ballard pulled in and cruised the lot. Each room had a large plate-glass window that looked out on the center of the complex. It was the kind of place that would still have box TVs in each room, locked to the bureau with a metal frame.

Ballard located room 18 and saw no lights on behind its curtained window. She noted the beat-up Ford pickup parked in front of its door. Eighteen was the last room before a well-lit alcove that contained an ice dispenser and Coke machine housed in a steel cage with cutouts for depositing money and removing drinks. She kept moving and parked the city-ride on the other side of the office so that it would not be seen should someone in room 18 split the curtain and look out the window. The car could be identified as a police car a mile away.

Before getting out, she used the rover to request a wants-and-warrants check on the pickup. It came back clean and registered to a Judith Nettles of Poway, a small town Ballard knew was down in San Diego County. Nettles had no record and no warrants on the computer.

Ballard proceeded on foot to the motel office, where she had to push a button on the glass door and wait until a man came out from a back room located behind the counter. Ballard had her badge up already and he buzzed her in.

“Hey there,” Ballard said as she entered. “I’m Detective Ballard from the Hollywood Station. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Evening,” said the counterman. “Ask away, I guess.”

He stifled a yawn as he sat down. Behind him on the wall were several clocks showing the time in cities all over the world, as if the place catered to the international traveler who had to keep tabs on business around the globe. Ballard could hear the sound of a TV coming from the back room. It was the audience laughter of a late-night talk show.

“Do you have a guest in room eighteen tonight?” Ballard asked.

“Uh, yes, eighteen is occupied,” the man said.

“What’s that guest’s name?”

“Don’t you need a warrant to ask that?”

Ballard put her hands on the counter and leaned toward the man.

“You watch too much TV in that back room, sir. I don’t need a warrant to ask questions and you don’t need to be presented with a warrant to answer them. You just need to choose right now to either help the LAPD with an investigation or hinder the LAPD.”

He stared at her for a moment and then turned the seat clockwise until he was facing a computer screen to his right. He hit the space bar and the screen came to life. He then pulled up the motel’s occupancy chart and clicked on room 18.

“His name is Christopher Nettles,” he said.

“He alone in there?” Ballard asked.

“Supposed to be. Registered as a single.”

“How long has he been here?”

The man referred to his screen again.

“Nine days.”

“Spell the first and last name for me.”

After getting the spellings, Ballard told the clerk she would be right back. She grabbed a couple of pamphlets for a Homes of the Stars bus tour off a stack on the counter and used them to keep the door from latching. She stepped into the parking lot to be out of the counterman’s earshot and used the rover to call communications and check Christopher Nettles for wants and warrants. He came up clean but Ballard was smart enough to know not to leave it there. She pulled her phone and called the Hollywood Station watch office and asked a desk uni to run the name through the national crime index database.