The Dark Hours (Harry Bosch #23)(59)

Now he turned his face to her.

“I don’t know and I didn’t ask her, because I don’t want to know. It’s the department I’m protecting, Ballard, not the cop. That’s why if you beef me and I beef you, you’re going to lose. The department always comes first. The department always wins. Think about that.”

He hit the gas and his car took off. Ballard didn’t flinch or move. She tracked the wide turn he made to go back to the gate, then pulled her phone and called Bosch.

“Harry, you got her?”

“She’s in a house up here on PCH. On the water just past the light at Topanga Canyon. What happened? Did he bring back your key?”

“I have it. Give me the address and I’ll come to you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Ballard pulled to the side of Pacific Coast Highway behind Bosch’s Jeep. She got out, walked up, and got into the passenger seat next to him.

“It’s that one with the portholes,” Bosch said.

He pointed across the street. The road was lined with houses cantilevered over the rocks, sand, and water. They were jammed next to each other like teeth in a mouth, so close that it was impossible to tell they were on the ocean save for the sound of the waves echoing from behind them. The house Bosch pointed at was a two-story with a single-slot carport. It was gray wood with white trim and two round windows on the second level. Ballard knew the view would be on the other side. There would be big glass looking out over the ocean.

“They pulled up,” Bosch said. “He walked her in, stayed two or three minutes, and then left. What’s going on, Renée?”

“She was about to name the money man,” Ballard said. “She called him the street banker and said he was a cop. Then Davenport jumped in and shut it down. He acted all noble like he was trying to protect the department. But I don’t buy it. I think she was about to reveal something he knew about.”

“He’s dirty?”

“Where’s the line on dirty? I think he at least knows something about the department that could damage it. His decision is to cover it up rather than clean it up. If that’s dirty, then, yeah, he’s dirty. But whatever it is, he didn’t know she was going to spill it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have set up the meeting.”

“Makes sense. So, what do you want to do?”

“I want the street banker’s name.”

“Then let’s go get it.”

It was a Sunday night and Malibu had emptied out at the end of the holiday weekend. There was little traffic and no threat to Ballard and Bosch as they crossed four lanes of PCH in the dark. The front door to the house where the informant apparently lived was off the carport near the driver’s side of the Porsche Panamera parked there. Ballard banged hard with the side of her fist so it would be heard over the sound of the waves crashing behind the house.

The door was opened before she had to hit it again. A man stood there. He was in his sixties, white, with the cliché attempts to look younger on full display: earring, bracelets, dyed hair and chin beard, fraying blue jeans, and a gray hoodie. It all went with the Porsche.

“Yes?” he asked.

Ballard badged him.

“We’re here to see the woman dropped off a half hour ago,” Ballard said. “I believe she may be your wife.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “It’s midnight and this is out — ”

He was interrupted by the informant walking up behind him to see who was at the door.

“You,” she said. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want,” Ballard said. “I want the name.”

Ballard stepped forward and her intimidating bearing made the man step back, even as he protested.

“Wait a minute here,” he said. “You can’t just — ”

“Is this your wife, sir?” Ballard asked.

“That’s right,” he said.

“Well, step back unless you want this conversation to take place in a police station,” Ballard said.

She then looked directly at the informant.

“You wouldn’t want that, would you?” she said. “Going back to the old neighborhood. You never know who from Las Palmas might be on the lockdown bench when we go in the back door at the station.”

“Gene,” the informant said. “Let them in. The sooner I deal with them, the sooner they leave. Go out on the deck.”

“Smart girl,” Ballard said.

“It’s cold out there,” Gene said.

“Just go,” the informant commanded. “This won’t take long.”

“Jesus,” Gene protested. “You said this sort of shit was over.”

He sauntered toward a set of sliding doors leading to the deck. Beyond the deck, the blue-black waves were beautifully lit by spotlights anchored under the house. The informant waited to speak until Gene was out on the deck and had closed the slider to muffle the sound of the ocean.

“I don’t like this,” she said. “Davenport told me not to speak to you anymore. And who the fuck are you?”

This last part was directed at Bosch.

“He’s with me,” Ballard said. “That’s all you need to know. And I don’t care what Davenport told you or whether you like this. You’re going to tell me about the banker or you’re going to be in the kind of trouble that Gene’s money can’t help you with.”