The Dark Hours (Harry Bosch #23)(81)

He turned and looked back into his house.

“But my family is — ”

“Let’s talk in the car.”

He hesitated again.

“In the front seat,” Ballard said. “As long as we’re talking, we’re not going anywhere.”

As if to reassure him she hooked her cuffs back onto her belt.

“My partner will stay outside the car, okay?” she added. “Not much room in the back. So it will be just you and me talking. Very private.”

“I guess,” Hoyle said. “It still feels weird.”

“Then let’s go inside and we’ll try not to wake anybody up.”

“No, no, your car is fine. Just as long as we’re not going anywhere.”

“You can get out anytime you want.”

“Okay, then.”

Bosch led the procession down the stone walkway across the manicured lawn to the UC car.

“Is this your own car?”

“Yeah, so I apologize ahead of time. It’s kind of dirty inside.”

Bosch opened the passenger-side door for Hoyle, who got in. Bosch closed the door and looked at Ballard as she circled behind the car to the driver’s side. He nodded. The plan was a go.

“Stay toward the front,” she whispered.

She opened the driver’s door and got in. Through the windshield, she saw Bosch take a position leaning against the front fender on the passenger side.

“He looks really old to be a detective,” Hoyle said.

“He’s the oldest living detective in L.A.,” Ballard said. “But don’t tell him I said that. He’ll get mad.”

“No worries. I’m not saying anything. Why don’t you two have a detective car?”

“The one we were assigned, the heat doesn’t work. So we took mine. You cold? You must be cold.”

She put the key in the ignition and turned it to the accessory setting. The dashboard lights came on and she reached for the heat control.

“Let me know if you want more heat.”

“I’m fine. Let’s get this over with. I have an early start tomorrow.”

Ballard checked Bosch again through the windshield. He had his arms crossed and his head down, adopting the posture of a guy who was tired of these routine interviews. Hoyle turned and looked out the window at his front door, as though reminding himself that he had to get back through it before this was over. Ballard used the moment to lean forward and reach under the dashboard to turn on the car’s audio/video system. The car was equipped with three hidden cameras and microphones for recording undercover drug buys. It would now capture everything that was said or done in the car from that moment on, putting it all on a chip in a recorder located in the trunk.

“Okay, I have to start by giving you the standard rights warning,” she said. “The department requires it of every interview, even if someone is not a suspect, because of adverse court rulings that — ”

“Look, I don’t know,” Hoyle said. “You said you just wanted to talk, now you’re giving me my rights? That’s not — ”

“Okay, listen, I’m just going to give you the rights warning and ask if you understand them. At that point, you have a choice: talk to me, don’t talk to me, and we go from there.”

Hoyle shook his head and put his hand on the door handle. Ballard knew she was about to lose him.

She hit the button that lowered her window. She called to Bosch, who came around the car. She grabbed the rover from the center console and held it out to him.

“We may need a car for a custody transport,” she said. “Can you deal with that?”

“Got it,” Bosch said.

He reached for the radio.

“Wait, wait,” Hoyle said. “Jesus Christ, okay, read me my rights. I’ll talk, let’s just get this over with.”

Ballard withdrew the radio and Bosch nodded. It was going about how they thought it would.

She put the window up and turned to Hoyle. From memory she gave him the Miranda warning and he acknowledged that he understood his rights and was agreeing to talk to her.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

“Ask your questions,” Hoyle said.

“After you saw us at the memorial service yesterday, who did you call?”

“Call? I didn’t call anyone. I drove home.”

“I gave you my card. I need to know who you told about me.”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t tell anyone.”

Hoyle had raised his voice enough for Bosch to hear it. He looked over his shoulder at Ballard through the windshield. She nodded slightly. Bosch pulled his phone and started making a call. He pushed off the front fender and walked to the front of the car while waiting for a connection.

“Who’s he calling?” Hoyle asked.

“I don’t know,” Ballard said. “But you need to think carefully here, Dr. Hoyle.”

Ballard paused and watched Bosch. He held his phone to his ear for a few moments, then took it down and ended the call. Ballard glanced over at the phone still in Hoyle’s hand. Its screen was dark. Hoyle had not sent the “Report” text to Bonner — at least not on the phone he was holding. Ballard now had to wonder who had sent it.