The Late Show (Renée Ballard #1)(71)

“Good. Was that authorized by Roosevelt?”

“Nah, Roosevelt is the night supe.”

Ballard produced a business card and handed it to the guard.

“Keep a watch on the patient in three-oh-seven. Anything happens, let me know, okay?”

The guard studied the card for a moment.

“You got it.”

Outside the front doors of the hospital Ballard stopped and took stock of where things stood. She was facing the depressing realization that her investigations were stalling on all fronts. With Ramona Ramone unable to identify her attacker, there was no evidence and no case against Trent, no matter how sure in her gut Ballard was that he was the abductor.

As for the Chastain/Dancers investigation, it wasn’t her case, and Carr, her connection to it, seemed unwilling to vigorously pursue the major leads she had provided.

It all left her feeling out of sorts, like she was powerless. She reached into her pocket and ran her thumb along the teeth of the key Beatrice Beaupre had sent out to her the night before. She tried to control an urge to go to the upside-down house and see what was inside. It was a big line to cross and she knew it was her frustrations that were pushing her into considering it.

She left the key in her pocket and pulled out her phone. She called the Acura dealership in the Valley and asked for Thomas Trent. Making sure he was in a verifiable location was the first step in crossing that line.

“I’m sorry, Tom is off today,” the operator said. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, no message,” Ballard said.

She disconnected and felt a slight sense of relief that she needed to stand down the urge to ghost Trent’s house. With him off work it would be too dangerous. Even if he wasn’t in the house, he could show up at any time. An idea that had seemed like a possibility was now a nonstarter.

“Fuck it,” Ballard said.

It was only two p.m. and it was her day off. She wasn’t back on duty until near midnight the following day. She decided to do the only thing that would allow her to clear her head and chase away the feeling of consternation.

She decided to go north.





25

By four p.m. Ballard had turned in the city-ride and picked up her van, grabbed lunch, and then driven out to Venice for her dog. She was now on the Pacific Coast Highway heading north toward Ventura. She had the windows down and the sea air was blowing in. Thoughts of the cases were floating in her wake. Lola sat in the front passenger seat with her snout out the window and in the wind.

All of that changed about an hour into the ride and just past Point Mugu when she received a call from a number with an 818 area code. The Valley. She didn’t recognize it but took the call.

It was Trent.

“Hi there!” he began cheerfully. “Tom Trent here. And guess what I am looking at.”

“I have no idea,” Ballard said hesitantly.

“An Arctic white 2017 RDX, fully loaded and ready to go. When do you want to come by the dealership?”

“Uh, you’re there now?”

“Sure am.”

Ballard didn’t understand, since she had called a few hours earlier and been told that he was off. Trent seemed to sense her confusion.

“I’m supposed to be off today,” he said, “but vehicle intake called and said we got the white RDX in, so I came in pronto. I want to make sure nobody else grabs this out from under us. What time works for you tonight?”

Ballard knew she could set up an appointment and then go to his house while he was at the dealership, waiting. But in the hours since she had left the hospital, she had retreated from that line and now was unsure she could cross it. She had also already called her grandmother and said she was coming up for dinner.

“Tonight’s not good,” she said. “I can’t come in.”

“Stella, I brought this in here for you,” Trent said. “It’s beautiful. It’s got the rearview camera, everything. How about you stop by on your way home from work again?”

“I’m not going home tonight, Tom. I’m out of town.”

“Really? You go off surfing in that surf truck of yours?”

Ballard froze but then remembered that she had driven her van into the lot when she had taken the test-drive, and her board had been on the roof.

“No, Tom, I’m not surfing. I’m out of town on business and I’ll get back to you when I return. I’m sorry for any misunderstanding.”

She disconnected before he could respond. There was something about the call that creeped her out—his sense of familiarity based on a test-drive.

“Fuck,” she said.

Lola turned from the window and looked at her.

Her phone buzzed again and immediately a sense of rage built inside. She thought Trent was calling her back.

But it wasn’t Trent. It was Rogers Carr.

“Okay, it was a warrant,” he said. “RHD pulled it from his phone records.”

He was talking about Robison’s phone and Ballard’s calls to it. She was skeptical.

“How’d they get around probable cause? He’s a witness, not a suspect.”

“They didn’t say he was a suspect. They cited exigent circumstances and that the holder of the phone was in possible danger. That’s it.”

“Did you get anything else? Like who else called him and who he called?”