The Dark Hours (Harry Bosch #23)(28)

“I’m nearby,” she said. “Did you find that book?”

“I did,” he said. “You’re coming now?”

“I’ll be there in five. I need to borrow your Wi-Fi too.”

“Okay.”

She hung up. She knew that she should be going to Hollywood Division to sit in on the roll call for the start of her watch, but she wanted to keep moving. She instead called the watch office to see which sergeant would be handling roll call and then asked to speak to him. It was Rodney Spellman.

“Whaddaya got, Ballard?” he said by way of a greeting.

“We had a third hit by the Midnight Men last night,” she said. “Up in the Dell.”

“Heard about it.”

“I’m out running with it and won’t make roll call. But can you bring it up and ask about last night? Especially, the fifteen and thirty-one cars? I want to know if they saw anything, jammed anybody, anything at all.”

“I can do that, yes.”

“Thanks, Sarge, I’ll check back later.”

“That’s a roger.”

She disconnected. She crossed the 101 on the Pilgrimage Bridge and soon was on Woodrow Wilson, heading up to Bosch’s place. Before she got there, she got a call from Lisa Moore.

“What’s happening, sister Ballard?” she asked.

Ballard guessed she was already hitting the wine, and her salutation rang false and annoying. Still, Ballard needed to talk to somebody about her findings.

“I’m still working it,” Ballard said. “But I think we need to rethink this. The third case is different from the first two and we might be looking the wrong way.”

“Whoa,” Moore said. “I was hoping to hear I’m okay to stay up here till Sunday.”

Ballard’s patience with Moore ran out.

“Jesus, Lisa, do you even care about this?” she said. “I mean, these two guys are out there and — ”

“Of course I care,” Moore shot back. “It’s my job. But right now it’s fucking up my life. Fine, I’m coming back. I’ll be in tomorrow at nine. I’ll meet you at the station.”

Ballard immediately felt bad about her outburst. She was now sitting in the car outside Bosch’s house.

“No, don’t bother,” she said. “I’ll cover it tomorrow.”

“You sure?” Moore said.

She said it a little too quickly and hopefully for Ballard.

“Yes, whatever,” Ballard said. “But you’re taking my shift, no questions asked, next time I need it.”

“Deal.”

“Let me ask you something. How did you do the cross-referencing of the first two victims? Interview, or did you have them fill out a Lambkin survey?”

“That thing’s eight pages long now with the updates. I wasn’t going to ask them to do that. I interviewed them and so did Ronin.”

Ronin Clarke was a detective with the Sexual Assault Unit. He and Moore weren’t partners in the traditional sense. They each carried their own caseload but backed each other up when needed.

“I think we should give them the survey,” Ballard said. “Things are different now. I think we had the victim acquisition wrong.”

There was silence from Moore. Ballard took this as disagreement, but Moore probably felt she could not voice an objection after having split town, leaving Ballard working the new case solo.

“Anyway, I’ll handle it,” Ballard said. “And I should go now. Got a lot to do and I have my shift tonight.”

“I’ll check in tomorrow,” Moore said helpfully. “And thank you so much, Renée. I will pay you back. You name the day, I’ll take your shift.”

Ballard disconnected and put on her mask. She got out with her briefcase. Bosch’s front door opened before she got to it.

“Saw you sitting out there,” Bosch said.

He stood back against the door so she could enter.

“I was just being a fool,” Ballard said.

“About what?” Bosch asked.

“My partner on the rapes. Allowing her to run off for the weekend with her boyfriend while I’m working two cases. I’m being stupid.”

“Where’d she go?”

“Santa Barbara.”

“Are places open up there?”

“I don’t think they plan on leaving the room much.”

“Oh. Well, like I said, I’m here and I can help. Wherever you need me.”

“I know. I appreciate it, Harry. It’s just the principle of it. She’s totally burned out. No empathy left. She should ask for a transfer from sex crimes.”

Bosch gestured toward the table in the dining room, where he already had his laptop open. They sat down facing each other. There was no music playing. Also on the table was a hardcover book with yellowed pages. It was Two of a Kind, by Darcy O’Brien.

“It does hollow you out, sex crimes,” Bosch said. “What’s happening since we talked?”

“It’s going upside down,” Ballard said. “Like I told you, three cases definitely linked, but this third one — it’s different from the first two. It changes things.”

Ballard put her briefcase on the floor next to her chair and slid out her laptop.