The Dark Hours (Harry Bosch #23)(22)


“No, why?”

“This closet was vacuumed. I think this is where he hid.”

Cindy stared down at the carefully manicured carpet.

“We put that in because the previous owner had stored paint cans there and some had spilled on the floor. It looks awful underneath.”

“ ‘We’?”

“My husband and I. We bought the place and then after the divorce, I kept it.”

“The door — do you leave it open? Like, to keep air circulating in there or something?”

“No, I keep it closed.”

“You’re sure you closed it after the last time you got stuff out for the coffee shop?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. Listen, I’m sorry, I know you probably just want to be left alone but I want Forensics to come here and process the closet and maybe the rest of the house.”

Carpenter was crestfallen.

“When?” she asked.

“I’ll call them right now,” Ballard said. “I’ll get it done as fast as possible. I know it’s an intrusion but we want to get these guys and I don’t want to leave any stone unturned. I don’t think you do either.”

“Okay, I guess. Will you be here?”

“If they can come now, I’ll stay. But in a few hours I start another shift. I’ll have to go check in at the station.”

“Try to get them to come now, please.”

“I will. Uh, you mentioned your husband. Is he still in L.A.? What is your relationship with him?”

“He’s here and we’re fine because we don’t see each other. He lives in Venice.”

But there was a clear tension underlying the way she said it.

“What’s he do?” Ballard asked.

“He’s in the tech industry,” Carpenter said. “Works for start-ups and stuff. He finds investors.”

Ballard stood up. She had to take a step to hold her balance. She realized that sleep deprivation was manifesting.

“You all right?” Carpenter asked.

“I’m fine — not enough sleep,” Ballard said. “How was your ex with you getting the house?”

“He was fine. Why? I mean he didn’t like it, but … What is this about?”

“I just have to ask a lot of questions, Cindy, that’s all. It’s not a big deal. Is he the one you were texting?”

“What?”

“When I came into the examination room today, you looked like you were texting or making a call.”

“No, I was texting Lacey at the shop, telling her she had to hold things together till I got back.”

“You told her what happened?”

“No, I lied. I said I was in an accident.”

She gestured to the injuries to her face.

“I have to figure out how to explain this,” she said.

This gave Ballard pause because she knew that what Carpenter told people now could come back around to haunt the case if it ever went to trial. As crazy as it seemed, a defense that the sex was consensual might gain support in a juror’s mind if there was testimony from the alleged victim’s friend that she had never mentioned being assaulted. It was a far-fetched possibility but Ballard knew she would need at some point to school Carpenter on this. But now was not the time.

“So, will you tell your ex about this?” she asked. “About what happened?”

“I don’t know, probably not. It’s not his business. Anyway, I don’t want to think about that right now.”

“I understand. I’m going to call Forensics now, see if I can get them out. You’re going to have to stay in the living room, if you don’t mind. I want them to do your bedroom.”

“Can I go get my book to read? It’s under the bed.”

“Yes, that’s fine. Just try not to touch anything else.”

Carpenter left the room and Ballard pulled her phone. Before calling for a forensics team, she squatted down and took a photo of the closet carpet, hoping the vacuum pattern would be discernible in the shot. She then called Forensics and got an ETA of one hour.

In the living room Ballard told Carpenter that the forensics tech would be at the house soon. She then asked if there was a remote in the house that opened the overhead garage door. She explained that she didn’t want to touch the knob on the door from the kitchen. Even a gloved hand might destroy fingerprint evidence.

“I use the garage for storage and just park out front or in the driveway,” Carpenter said. “So I have a clicker in my car that opens it, and there’s a button on the wall just inside the garage next to the kitchen door.”

“Okay,” Ballard said. “Can we go out to the car and use the clicker?”

They stepped out and Carpenter used a remote key to unlock her car. The parking lights blinked but Ballard did not hear a distinctive snap of the locks.

“Was your car locked?” she asked. “I didn’t — ”

“Yes, I locked it last night,” Carpenter said.

“I didn’t hear the locks click.”

“Well, I always lock it.”

Ballard was annoyed with herself for not first checking to see whether the car had been locked. Now she would never know for sure.

“I’m going to enter from the passenger side,” she said. “I don’t want to touch the driver’s door handle. Where is the garage clicker?”

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