The Dark Hours (Harry Bosch #23)(82)

“Think carefully about what?” Hoyle said.

“This is one of the moments when the decision you make will affect the rest of your life,” Ballard said.

Hoyle turned toward the door and again reached for the handle.

“Now you’re scaring me. I’m getting out.”

“You get out, and the next time you see me will be when I kick down your door with a warrant and drag you out of there in front of your neighbors.”

Hoyle turned back to her.

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want. Who did you call after we met at the memorial?”

“Nobody!”

Ballard started reaching into the backseat of the car.

“I want you to look at something, Doctor.”

She pulled two thick files off the backseat floor and onto her lap.

“I want you to know we’ve been onto you since Albert Lee and John William James.”

“Onto what?”

“Onto everything. The factoring, the insurance fraud, the company you and your friends made, the murders …”

“Oh my god, this can’t be happening.”

“It is. And that’s why you have to make a choice here. Help or hinder. Because if you can’t help me, I’m going to the next partner. If he doesn’t help, I go to the next. Somebody’s going to be smart or get smart. And then it will be too late for the others. I only need to put one insider in front of the grand jury. I thought it was going to be you, but it doesn’t matter.”

Hoyle leaned forward and for a moment Ballard thought he was going to vomit onto the floor in front of his seat. But then he pulled back, eyes closed, misery all over his face.

“This is all Jason’s fault,” he said. “I should have never …”

“Jason Abbott?” Ballard asked.

“No, I’m not saying another word until you promise to protect me. He’ll send his guy after me!”

“We can protect you. But right now you need to give me what I need. Who did you tell about me after the memorial? That is question one.”

“All right, all right. I told Jason. I said the cops had cornered me, and he yelled at me for even going to that thing in the first place.”

“Do you know who Christopher Bonner is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Who found the people you and the others would loan money to?”

“Jason had somebody. I never got involved.”

“You didn’t know he was going to have them — ”

“No! Never. I didn’t know any of that until he did it. And then it was too late. I looked guilty. We all did.”

“So you just went along with it.”

“I didn’t have a choice. Don’t you see? I didn’t want to get killed. Look what happened to J.W.”

“John William James.”

“Yes. He said ‘no more’ to Jason, and look what happened to him.”

“What about his wife? Was she part of this?”

“No, no, no — she doesn’t know anything.”

“How many were there?”

“How many what?”

“You know what I’m asking. How many times did the factoring lead to somebody dying?”

Hoyle bowed his head in shame and closed his eyes.

“If you lie to me one time, I will no longer help you,” Ballard said.

“There were six,” Hoyle said. “No, seven. Javier Raffa was number seven.”

“Including James?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Ballard looked through the windshield at Bosch. He had been watching them, seeing but not hearing Hoyle talk. They locked eyes and Ballard nodded. She had gotten what she needed. Hoyle was on video.

“Go back inside now, Doctor,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone about this. If you do, I’ll know and I’ll bury you.”

“Okay,” Hoyle said. “But what do I do now?”

“You just wait. You’ll hear from a detective named Bettany. Ross Bettany. He’ll tell you what to do.”

“Okay.”

“You can get out now.”





34


Bosch had brought a thermos of coffee with him. When Ballard had picked him up, he came out with the thermos and two to-go cups. Ballard had told him they weren’t going to a stakeout, but he’d said, you never know.

Bosch had always been a sort of homicide guru to Ballard. Ever since the night she caught him going through files in the D-bureau — long after he’d retired. She wasn’t sure whether it was wisdom or experience, or if experience brought the wisdom, but she knew he was never just backup. He was her go-to guy and she trusted him.

They didn’t get to Jason Abbott’s house until after one. The house was dark, and there was no answer to repeated knocks on his door. They debated whether he knew what was closing in around him and had fled. But that didn’t fit with the known facts. He may have learned that Bonner was dead, but even that was a stretch, as the man who had killed himself in Ballard’s apartment had no ID on his person. Ballard knew it was Bonner because she recognized him. But his identity would not have been released by the coroner’s office until it had been confirmed through fingerprints and other means.