The Late Show (Renée Ballard #1)(41)

She entered to find the room stacked with boxes and items ordered from online retailers. Nettles had quite an operation, taking stolen plastic and turning it into merchandise he could pawn or sell. She quickly determined that there were no other occupants in the room and backed out.

Because Nettles was on parole for a felony conviction, Ballard did not need to jump through most of the constitutional hoops that protected citizens from unlawful search and seizure. By legal definition, being on parole from prison meant Nettles was still in the custody of the state. By accepting parole he had given up his protections. His parole agent was allowed to access his home, vehicle, and workplace without so much as a nod from a judge.

Ballard pulled her phone and called the cell number she had for Rob Compton, the state parole officer assigned to Hollywood Division. She woke him up. She had done so in the past on numerous occasions and knew how he would react.

“Robby, wake up,” she said. “One of your customers has run wild in Hollywood.”

“Renée?” he said, his voice slurred with sleep. “Ballard, fuck, it’s a frickin’ Friday night! What time is it anyway?”

“It’s time to earn your keep.”

He cursed again and Ballard gave him a few seconds to come to.

“You awake now? Christopher Nettles, you know him?”

“No, he’s not mine.”

“Because he’s up here out of San Diego County. I’m sure they know him down there but he’s in Hollywood, so that makes him your problem.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s got a two-year tail on a hot prowl plus conviction and it looks like he’s been up here plying his mad skills for a couple weeks. I’ve got a motel room full of Amazon and Target boxes and I need you to violate him so I can get in there and go through all this stuff.”

“What motel?”

“The Siesta Village on Santa Monica. I’m sure you know the place.”

“Been there a few times, yeah.”

“So how about coming out tonight and helping me with this guy?”

“Ballard, no. I was dead asleep and I’m supposed to go fishing tomorrow with my boys.”

Ballard knew Compton was divorced and had three sons he saw only on weekends. She had learned that one morning when she went home with him after working a case through the night.

“Come on, Robby, this place looks like the back room of a Best Buy. And I forgot, he had a firearm. I will really owe you one if you can help me out.”

It was one of the times Ballard unabashedly used her sexuality. If it could help persuade male officers to do what they were supposed to do, then she wasn’t above using it. Compton was good at what he did but he was always reluctant to come out at night. He still had to keep regular office hours, no matter what extracurricular work he did. On top of that, Ballard liked his company off duty. He was attractive and neat, his breath was usually fresh, and he had a sense of humor that most of the cops she worked with had lost a long time ago.

“I need a half hour,” he finally said.

“Deal,” Ballard said quickly. “It will take me that long to get him squared away. Thanks, Robby.”

“Like you said, you’re gonna owe me, Renée.”

“Big time.”

She knew that last line would shave ten minutes off his half hour. She was happy to know he was coming. Bringing the department of parole in would streamline things considerably. Compton had the authority to revoke Nettles’s parole, which would also suspend his legal protections. There would be no need to deal with the District Attorney’s Office or the grumpy on-call judge to get a search warrant for the motel room. They could just enter both the room and pickup truck to conduct full-scale searches.

They would also be able to hold the suspect on a no-bail booking. Nettles would be out of circulation and heading back to prison before charges in the new cases were even filed—if they were ever filed. Sometimes the return to prison and the clearing of cases was enough for the system to just move on. Ballard knew that with prison overcrowding forcing lighter sentences for nonviolent crimes, Nettles returning for a year or two in prison on a parole violation would probably net him more time than he would get if they mounted a prosecution on the burglaries he had committed. The reality was that the gun charge would be the only add-on that would likely get consideration from the D.A.’s Office.

After finishing the call with Compton, she walked over to Smith and Taylor and told them they could take Nettles to the station and book him on a charge of ex-convict in possession of a firearm. She said she would stay on scene and wait for the parole officer to arrive before going through the property in the motel room.

Smith didn’t respond. He just moved slowly after receiving the orders, and Ballard couldn’t tell what was bugging him.

“Something wrong, Smitty?” she asked.

He kept moving toward her car to collect Nettles, who had been placed in the backseat.

“Smitty?” she asked.

“Tactics,” he said without looking back.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

He didn’t respond, so she followed him. She knew better than to leave something unsaid out there with a male officer—especially a training officer. They carried weight. She wondered if this was about the bad angle she had taken when she stepped out of the alcove, but she didn’t think the patrol officers had arrived in time to see that.