The Dark Hours (Harry Bosch #23)(36)

“Mallard,” he said. “Are you sure?”

Returning to her car, Ballard said nothing. As she opened the door, she stared back at Smallwood, who was still waiting for a response.

“Did you check the height on his DL?” she asked.

“Uh, no,” Smallwood said.

“Five eleven. We’re looking for guys about five six, five eight max.”

She got in the car, checked her side mirror, and then pulled out, leaving Smallwood standing there.

Since she was already out and about, she decided to follow through with her plan to drive up into the Dell to check things out in the dark hours. She slowly cruised down the street, passing Cindy Carpenter’s house. The living room lights were on behind drawn curtains. Ballard also saw down the side of the house a light in what would be the guest bedroom. She thought Cindy had probably moved to that room to sleep, leaving behind the room where she had been attacked. She wondered if Cindy would sleep with the lights on from now on.

Deciding to walk up and down the street, she drove down to the cul-de-sac and pulled to the curb. The chill of the night might reinvigorate her and she would see all the shadows and dark places.

The first thing she noted as she walked was that, while the street seemed quiet, the background sound from the nearby 101 freeway was noticeable. Earlier she had been on Harry Bosch’s back deck that overlooked the same freeway from the other side, but the traffic noise had not been as intrusive as it was up here. She also imagined that the neighborhood would hear the faint sounds of the Hollywood Bowl, which was positioned directly across the freeway. That was probably a good sound to hear, and would have been missed for almost a year now with the pandemic closure.

The streetlights were positioned too far apart to provide continuous lighting on the street. There were pockets of darkness, and the Carpenter house was in one of these, shaded deeper because the nearest streetlight — at the east end of the property — was out. Ballard pulled out the small light she always carried in the pocket of her Van Heusen jacket and put it up toward the opaque glass globe at the top of the post. It was an antique streetlamp, the kind favored by the residents of the wealthy hillside neighborhoods, where they were more concerned with design and aesthetics than the need for light as a deterrent to crime. Many of the neighborhoods in the hills and wealthy communities were still lit by the dim glow of these lamps. In L.A., decisions about style, intensity, and number of streetlights were left to neighborhood homeowner groups to decide. Consequently, there were dozens of different designs all through the city and most homeowner associations fought any effort to modernize the streetlamps.

The fogged glass top of the light appeared to be intact. Ballard could not determine whether it had been damaged or tampered with. She tracked her flashlight beam down the precast stone post to the base, where there was a steel plate through which the light’s internal wiring could be accessed. She was about to stoop down to look for signs of tampering on the plate, when she was startled by a man’s voice from behind her.

“That’s an acorn.”

Ballard whipped around and put her light into the eyes of an old man carrying a small dog in both arms. The dog looked like a Chihuahua and appeared just as old and decrepit as its owner. The man tried to raise a hand to block the light but could not reach high enough without possibly dropping his dog. Ballard lowered the light and pulled her mask up over her mouth and nose.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You startled me.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to,” the man said. “I see you’re admiring our acorn.”

“You mean the light?”

“Yes, we call them acorns because of the shape of the globe, you see. We are very protective of them.”

“Well, this one isn’t doing too well.”

“It’s been reported to the BSL. I called personally.”

“You live on this street?”

“Oh, yes. More than fifty years. I even knew Peter the Hermit back in the day.”

Ballard had no idea whom or what he was referencing.

“I’m a police officer,” she said. “A detective. Do you walk this street often at night?”

“Every night. Frederic here has gotten too old to walk, so I carry him. I know he likes it.”

“When did you report that this … acorn … was out?”

“Yesterday morning. I wanted it fixed before the holiday but they didn’t get it done. But I told them, you people screwed it up, get back out here and fix it. I didn’t want it put to the back of the line. I know how the BSL works.”

“And what is the BSL? And who screwed what up?”

“The Bureau of Street Lighting. But I say it means Bull Shit Lies. They’re supposed to preserve but they don’t care about history. Or beauty. They want the whole city to look the same. The ugly orange glow from their big steel poles. Sodium vapor. That’s why they’re out here sabotaging us, if you ask me.”

At that moment, Ballard became very interested in the old man.

“What is your name, sir?”

“Jack. Jack Kersey. Chairman of the streetlighting committee, Hollywood Dell Association.”

“When did you notice that this one was out?”

“Wednesday night on our walk — day before yesterday.”

“And you think it was sabotaged?”