The Late Show (Renée Ballard #1)(55)

She tried to keep the urgency and concern out of her voice. Her grandmother was eighty-two years old.

“He had a badge and he gave me a business card. He said you have to call him.”

“Okay, I will. Can you read me his name and give me the number?”

“Yes, it’s Rogers—with the s at the end—Carr, spelled with two r’s.”

“Rogers Carr. What about a number so I can call him?”

Ballard grabbed a pen out of the center console and wrote a 213 number on an old parking receipt. She didn’t recognize the name or number.

“Tutu, does it say under his name where he works? Like what unit?”

“Yes, it says Major Crimes Unit.”

Now Ballard understood what was happening.

“Perfect, Tutu. I’ll give him a call. Was he by himself when he came to the door?”

“Yeah, by himself. Are you coming up tonight?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so this week. I’m working a case, Tutu.”

“Renée, it’s your weekend.”

“I know, I know, but they’ve got me working. Maybe I’ll get an extra day next week if we wrap this up. Have you been out to check the break lately?”

“Every day I walk on the beach. A lot of boys on the water. It must be good.”

Ballard’s grandmother lived in Ventura not far from Solimar Beach and Mussel Shoals, the places where her son— Renée’s father—had grown up surfing.

“Well,” Ballard said. “I hope it’s still good next week. I’m going to call this guy now, Tutu, and see what he wants. I’ll let you know next week when I’m heading up.”

“Okay, Renée. Be careful.”

“I know, Tutu.”

Ballard disconnected and looked at the clock on the screen. It was 11:11, and that meant the stores on Melrose Avenue were open. According to Alicia, Zander Speights wasn’t missing. She had spoken to him on Saturday at Kicks when she went in looking for Metro.

Ballard started the engine and dropped the car into drive. She headed down La Jolla toward Melrose. Despite what she had said to her grandmother, she had no intention of calling Rogers Carr. She knew what he was up to and what he wanted. Major Crimes had been folded into the Dancers/ Chastain investigation and, like Steadman and Rudolph, Carr was most likely involved in tracing Chastain’s last steps. That would include his visit to Hollywood Station to pick up Zander Speights and his cell phone. It would also include the final conversation she had with Chastain. That was personal and private and she didn’t want to share it.

Ballard listed her grandmother’s address as her permanent address on all departmental personnel records. She had a bedroom in the little bungalow and spent most of her days off up there, drawn by Tutu’s home cooking and conversation, the nearby surf breaks, and the washer and dryer in the garage. But nobody besides her partner, Jenkins, knew exactly where she went on days off the job. The fact that Carr had made the ninety-minute drive up to the house in Ventura told Ballard that he had gotten access to her personnel jacket, and that bothered her. She decided that if Carr wanted to talk to her, then he could come find her.

Kicks was like a lot of shops that lined Melrose between Fairfax and La Brea. Minimalist chic and expensive. It was essentially a custom-athletic-shoe store. Shoes by recognizable brands like Nike, Adidas, and New Balance were modified with dyes, pins, zippers, and sewn-on sequins, crosses, and rosaries and then sold for hundreds of dollars over the original retail price. And by the looks of things when Ballard entered, nobody seemed to mind. There was a sign behind the cash register station that said the shoe is art.

Ballard felt about as with-it as a chaperone at a high school dance. She scanned the already crowded store and saw Speights opening a shoe box for a customer interested in a pair of Nikes with pink lipstick kisses emblazoned on them. He was extolling the cool factor of the shoes when he saw Ballard hovering nearby.

“I’ll be right with you, Detective,” he said.

He said it loud enough to draw everyone in the store’s attention to Ballard. She ignored the stares and picked up a shoe off one of the clear plastic pedestals used to display the store’s wares. It was a red Converse high-top that had somehow been mounted on a three-inch platform heel.

“You would look great in those, Detective.”

Ballard turned. It was Speights. He had broken away from his customer, who was pacing in front of a mirror and considering the Nikes with kisses that she had tried on.

“I’m not sure they would hold up on a fast break,” she said.

His face betrayed that Speights didn’t get the joke. Ballard moved on.

“Zander, I need to talk to you for a few minutes. Do you have an office in the back where we can have some privacy?”

Speights gestured toward his customer.

“I’m working, and this is a commission shop,” he said. “We have a sale today and I have to sell. I can’t just—”

“Okay, I get it,” Ballard said. “Just tell me about Metro. Where is he?”

“I don’t know where Metro is, man. He’s supposed to be here. He didn’t show yesterday either, and when I called him, he didn’t pick up.”

“If he was hiding, where would he go?”

“What? I don’t know. I mean, who goes into hiding? This is so weird.”