The Dark Hours (Harry Bosch #23)(16)

“The guy who opens the door still counts. But the innocents come first. When I get all of those solved, we can talk about the next wave. Everybody still counts. There are only so many hours in the day and days in the year.”

“And this is why a guy who kills an entire family is on the top of your pile.”

“You got it.”

Ballard nodded as she digested Bosch’s view of what it took to either get hooked by a case or be able to put it at the end of the line.

“So,” she finally said. “On the Albert Lee case, who was the factor?”

“It was a doctor,” Bosch said. “A dentist, actually. His name was John William James. His offices were down in the Marina and I guess he made so much money capping teeth that he started factoring.”

“You said ‘was.’ His name ‘was’ John William James.”

“Yeah, that’s going to be a problem with your case. John William James is dead. A couple years after Albert Lee got murdered, James got himself whacked as well. He was sitting in his Mercedes in the parking lot outside his office when somebody put a twenty-two in his head too.”

“Shit.”

“There goes your lead, huh?”

“Maybe. But I’d still like to see if you can find the chrono on the case, and whatever else you’ve got.”

“Sure. It’s either in the carport closet or under the house.”

“Under?”

“Yeah, I built a storage room under there after I retired. It’s pretty nice. I even have a bench for when I go down and look through cases.”

“Which I’m sure you do often.”

Bosch didn’t respond, which she took as confirmation.

“By the way,” Ballard said. “How are you doing with everything … from the radiation case?”

She hesitated saying the word leukemia.

“I’m still kicking, obviously,” Bosch said. “I take my pills and that seems to keep it in check. It could come back but for now I’ve got no complaints.”

“Good to hear,” Ballard said. “So do you mind looking for that chrono now?”

“Sure, I’ll be right back. It might take me a few. You want me to put the music back on?”

“That’s okay, but I was going to ask, what was that you were playing when I pulled up? It had a groove.”

“ ‘Compared to What.’ Some people say it was the first jazz protest song: ‘Nobody gives us rhyme or reason. Have one doubt, they call it treason.’ ”

“Okay, put it back on. Who is it?”

Bosch got up and went to the stereo to hit the play button. Then he adjusted the volume down.

“Originally Eddie Harris and Les McCann, but this version is John Legend and The Roots.”

Ballard started to laugh. Bosch hit the button again.

“What?” he asked.

“You surprise me, Harry, that’s all,” Ballard said. “I didn’t think you listened to anything recorded this century.”

“That hurts, Ballard.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll be right back.”





9


Ballard was in the garage of her condominium complex, grabbing her kit bag out of the back, the printouts from Bosch under her arm, when a man approached her. She tensed as she scanned the garage and saw no one else around. Her gun was in the kit bag.

“Hello, neighbor,” the man said. “I just wanted to introduce myself. You’re twenty-three, right?”

She knew he meant her apartment number. She’d been in the building just a few months, and though there were only twenty-five units, she had not yet met all of her neighbors.

“Uh, yeah, hi,” she said. “Renée.”

They bumped elbows.

“I’m Nate in thirteen, right below you,” he said. “Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year to you,” Ballard said.

“My partner is Robert. He said he met you when you were moving stuff in.”

“Oh, right, yeah, I met Robert. He helped me get a table into the elevator.”

“And he said you’re a cop.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I guess it’s not a great time to be a cop these days.”

“It has its moments. Not all good, not all bad.”

“Just so you know, I did join the Black Lives Matter protest. Don’t hold it against me.”

“I won’t. And I agree, Black lives matter.”

Ballard noticed he was carrying a helmet and wearing cycling gear, including the tight biking shorts with padding in the butt that look awkward whenever you’re off the bike. She wanted to change the subject without being rude to a neighbor.

“You ride?” she asked.

It was a dumb question but the best she could manage.

“Every chance I can,” Nate said. “But I sure see that you have a different hobby.”

He pointed to the boards Ballard had propped against the garage wall in front of her Defender. One was her paddleboard for flat days, the other her Rusty Mini Tanker for surfing the Sunset break. The rest of her boards were in the condo’s storage room, but her closet was full and she knew leaving her most used boards in the garage risked theft. She hoped the cameras on the exits were a deterrent.