The Dark Hours (Harry Bosch #23)(40)

She counted the hours since she had slept and it came to almost a solid day. She wanted to take her board out to the Sunset break and let the Pacific restore her, but she knew sleep was imperative. She would go by Native Bean, check on Cindy, then get to her apartment to sleep until at least noon. She drove out of the station lot and up to Sunset. She took a right and it was a straight shot to Hillhurst.

Ballard arrived at Native Bean at seven and saw four people already in line at the window. She parked across the street, pulled up her mask, and got out.

When it was Ballard’s turn, she was not waited on by Cindy. Ballard ordered a decaf black and could see Cindy in the background, making the drinks. She called out to her and waved.

“You got a minute?”

“Uh, not right — Let me get these orders out. There’s a table on the side.”

Because Ballard had not ordered a fancy coffee concoction, she received her cup right away. She took it around the side of the building, where there were four tables spaced properly along the sidewalk of the cross street. She sat at the table next to the side door of the shop and waited. She didn’t want the coffee she had just bought, even though it was decaf. She wanted to be able to sleep.

Carpenter came out with her own cup of coffee after about five minutes.

“Sorry, we got busy.”

She sat across the table from Ballard. The bruises on her face were spreading and had turned a deep purple. The lacerations were just starting to scab over.

“No problem,” Ballard said. “I didn’t tell you I was coming. I just wanted to check on you and see how you’re doing.”

“I’m all right,” Carpenter said. “I guess. Considering.”

“Yeah, you’ve been through something nobody should have to experience.”

“Is there any news? Did you — ”

“No, not really. I mean, no arrests. When we get them, I will let you know right away, day or night.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Did you have time to work on the questionnaire?”

“Yes, but I’m not finished. It’s a lot. I brought it with me and I’ll work on it after the morning rush.”

As if on cue, the screen door of the shop opened and the woman who had taken Ballard’s order at the window leaned out.

“We have orders,” she said.

“Okay,” Carpenter said. “I’ll be in.”

The employee let the door bang shut.

“I’m sorry,” Carpenter said. “I really need to be in there.”

“That’s okay,” Ballard said. “We can talk later when you finish the questionnaire. I just wanted to ask if anything else came to mind. You know, you remembered about the photo, so I wanted to see if more details had come to you.”

Carpenter got up from the table.

“No, not really,” she said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, nothing to be sorry about,” Ballard said. “But one other thing real quick. One of your neighbors saw a white van on the street before the attack on you. Two men, supposedly working on a streetlight, but the light is definitely out. I was up there. So I think it was them and they were disabling the light to make it darker outside your house.”

“That’s creepy,” Carpenter said. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll check with the Bureau of Street Lighting to see if they had somebody up there, but I kind of doubt it. One of the wires in that lamppost was cut. Anyway, I just wanted to ask. You don’t know anybody who owns a white van, do you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Okay, I’ll let you get back to work.”

After Carpenter went back inside, Ballard got up and dropped her untouched coffee into a trash can. It was time to go to sleep.





16


The buzz from her cell phone infiltrated her sleep, pulling Ballard out of a dream about water. She pushed the sleep mask up onto her forehead and reached for the phone. She saw that it was Bosch calling and it was exactly noon.

“Harry.”

“Shit, you were sleeping. Call me back when you’re awake.”

“I’m awake, I’m awake. What’s going on?”

“I think I found the nexus.”

His use of the word nexus sent Ballard’s thoughts toward the victims of the Midnight Men. That was the case she had been running with until exhaustion drove her down into the deep sleep Bosch had just roused her from. She flipped the comforter over, swung her legs to the edge of the bed, and pulled herself up into a sitting position.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “What are you saying? You connected the three women? How did — ”

“No, not the women,” Bosch said. “The murders. Javier Raffa and Albert Lee.”

“Oh, yeah, got it. Sorry. I have to wake up.”

“When did you go down?”

“About eight.”

“That’s not enough time. Go back to sleep, call me later.”

“No, I won’t be able to sleep now. I’ll be thinking about the case. Tell you what, you hungry? I never ate anything yesterday. I could bring something up to the house.”

“Uh, yeah. If you’re sure.”

“I am. What do you want?”