The Dark Hours (Harry Bosch #23)(47)

“How much of the questionnaire did you get through?” she asked.

“I’m almost finished,” Carpenter said. “It’s right here.”

She pulled a folded sheaf of papers off the side table and tried to fling it across the coffee table to Ballard. She missed badly and it ended up on the other end of the couch.

“Oops, sorry,” Carpenter said.

Ballard got up and picked up the papers.

“The calendar in there goes back sixty days,” Carpenter said. “I can barely remember where I was a week ago. So it’s definitely incomplete. But I got the rest of it done.”

“Thank you,” Ballard said. “I know this was a headache for you to do right now, but it is really valuable to the investigation.”

She flipped through the pages and read some of the answers Carpenter had provided in the calendar section. These included restaurants and shopping destinations. The week before Christmas and the day itself were marked with “La Jolla.”

“La Jolla?” Ballard asked.

“My parents live down there,” Carpenter said. “I always go down at Christmas.”

Ballard finished scanning.

“You went the whole month without putting gas in your car?” she asked. “What about gassing up to go down to La Jolla?”

“I didn’t know you wanted that kind of stuff,” Carpenter said.

“We want everything, Cindy. Anything you can remember.”

“I get gas at the Shell at Franklin and Gower. It’s on my way to work.”

“See, that’s exactly what we want. The locations of your routines. When did you last get gas?”

“On my way back from my parents’ the day after Christmas. Somewhere in Orange County off the five.”

“Okay, we don’t care about that, I don’t think, since it’s a one-off. What about disputes? Anybody at work or elsewhere?”

“Not really. I mean, customers complain all the time — we just give them another coffee and that’s it.”

“So nothing’s ever gotten out of hand? Especially recently?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“You have down here Massage Envy — is that the one on Hillhurst?”

“Yes, my employees gave me a gift certificate for Christmas and I used it one day when I got off work early. Nothing happened.”

“Male or female masseuse?”

“Female.”

“All right. I will probably have more questions after I look through this.”

What she did not say was that she might have questions after she cross-referenced Carpenter’s answers with those from the other two victims.

“So, did you find out anything about the streetlighting guys?” Cindy asked.

“No, not yet,” Ballard said.

“Do you think it was them?”

“It could have been. The questionnaire is important because we need to find out where your attackers crossed paths with you. We want to try to understand who would target you, and why.”

Carpenter slapped her hand down on her thigh like she was fed up.

“Why is it my fault?” she said angrily. “Why is it because of something I did?”

“I’m not saying that,” Ballard said quickly. “I’m not saying that at all.”

Ballard felt her phone buzz. She checked the screen and saw that it was the inside line at Hollywood Station. It was the watch commander and she realized she had left the rover in the charging dock in her city car. She put the phone away without answering the call.

“Well, it sure seems like it,” Carpenter said.

“Then I’m sorry,” Ballard said. “So let me make it clear: You did nothing to deserve or attract this. What happened to you was not your fault in any way. We’re talking about the attackers here. I’m trying to learn where and under what circumstances these sick, twisted individuals decided to choose you. That’s all, and I don’t want you thinking that I’m looking at it any other way.”

Carpenter had her face turned away again. She murmured a response.

“Okay,” she said.

“I know that sometimes the investigation is just an ongoing reminder of what you were put through,” said Ballard. “But it’s a necessary evil, because we want to catch these assholes and put them away.”

“I know. And I’m sorry I’m being a bitch.”

“You’re not, Cindy. And you have nothing to be sorry about. At all.”

Ballard stood up and folded the Lambkin questionnaire in half.

“You’re going?” Carpenter asked.

After turning her face from her and repeatedly pushing back at her questions, Carpenter now seemed upset that Ballard was leaving.

“It looks like I have another call,” Ballard said. “I need to go. But I can check in later if you want me to.”

“Okay.”

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“No, I’m off.”

“Okay, I’ll check in with you if I have anything to report.”

Ballard left the house and headed to her car, looking at her phone for a message from the watch office. There was none. When she got to her car, she looked back at the streetlight at the front corner of Cindy Carpenter’s property. It was still out.