The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(11)

“Shit,” Haller said.

“Not as bad as it sounds. I’m being treated but—”

“What treatment?”

“Chemo. The modern kind of chemo. I basically take a pill every day and that’s it. In six months they see where it’s at and if they need to get more serious about treatment.”

“Shit.”

“You said that. There are some side effects but it’s not bad. I just get tired easily. What I wanted to see you about is whether I would have any kind of case here. I’m thinking about my daughter. If this chemo stuff doesn’t work, I want to make sure she’s set up, you know what I mean? Taken care of.”

“Have you talked to her about this?”

“No. You’re the only one I’ve talked to.”

“Shit.”

“You keep saying that. But what do you think? Is there a workman’s comp thing I can go back to the LAPD with? What about the hospital? This guy just waltzed in there in his white doctor’s coat and name tag and then waltzed out with thirty-two pieces of cesium in a lead bucket. The whole incident exposed the lax security in the oncology lab and they made big changes afterward.”

“But too late for you. So, forget workman’s comp. We’re talking about a major claim here.”

“What about the statute of limitations? The exposure was twelve years ago.”

“The clock on something like this doesn’t start ticking until you’re diagnosed. So you’re all right there. The deal we made when you exited the police department gave you a million-dollar health-insurance cap.”

“Yeah, and if I get sick from this—I mean like really sick—I’ll burn through that in a year. I’m not going to tap into my 401K. That’s going to Maddie.”

“Right, I know. With the department, we’ll have to go through arbitration and most likely we’ll get a settlement. The hospital will be the way to go. Poor security led to this scheme, which led to your exposure. That’s our A game.”

They started eating and Haller continued with his mouth full.

“All right, so I wrap up this trial—we’ll go to the jury in another day, two at the max—and then we file a notice. I’ll need to take a video deposition from you. We schedule that, then I think we’ll have everything we need to move on.”

“Why the video—in case I die or something?”

“There’s that. But it’s mostly because I want them to see you telling the story. They hear the story from you, instead of read it in a pleading or a depo transcript, and they’ll shit their pants. They’ll know they’re on the losing end of this thing.”

“Okay, and you’ll set it up?”

“Yes. I’ve got people who do these all the time.”

Bosch had barely gotten one bite of his sandwich but Haller was halfway finished. Bosch guessed that a morning in trial made him hungry.

“I don’t want this to get out,” Bosch said. “You know what I mean? No media on it.”

“I can’t make that promise,” Haller said. “Sometimes the media can be used to apply pressure. You’re the one who got dosed with this stuff while carrying out your job. Believe me, public sympathy will be with you ten to one easy. And that can be a powerful tool.”

“Okay, then look—I need to know ahead of time if this is going to break in the media, so I can talk to Maddie first.”

“That I can promise. Now, did you keep any records from that case? Is there anything I can look at?”

“Give me a ride back to my car after this. I have the chrono and most of the important reports. I made copies back then just in case. I brought it all in my car.”

“Okay, we go back and trade files. You give me that stuff, I’ll give you what I have on Herstadt. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“You just gotta be quick with Herstadt. I’m almost out of time.”





BALLARD





7


The tent was warm and cozy and she felt safe. But then the fumes of kerosene invaded her mouth and nose and lungs and it suddenly grew hot and then it was melting around her and burning.

Ballard sat up with a start. Her hair was still damp and she checked her watch. She had only slept three hours. She thought about going back down but the edges of the dream were still with her, the smell of kerosene. She pulled a length of hair across her face and under her nose. She smelled the apple in the shampoo she had used after paddling.

“Lola.”

Her dog shot through the tent’s opening and to her side. Lola was half boxer and half pit. Ballard rubbed her wide, hard head and felt the horror of the dream receding. She wondered if the man in the tent the night before had woken at the end. She hoped not. She hoped he was so doped up or alcohol addled that he never felt pain or knew he was dying.

She ran her hand along the side of her tent. It was nylon and she imagined heat from a fire collapsing it on her like a shroud. Awake or not, the man had died a horrible death.

She pulled her phone out of her backpack and checked for messages. No calls or texts, just an e-mail from Nuccio, the arson investigator, saying he had received her report and he would send her his reports in turn when completed. He said that he and his partner had determined the death was accidental and that the victim remained unidentified because whatever ID he had with him in the tent had burned.