The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(22)
“Is that what you told Sloan, that you were told to clear out?”
“I don’t know. I tol’ him I wudn’t there that day and it was no lie.”
“Okay, who told you to clear out of that alley?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Had to have been a boss, right?”
“I guess maybe. It was a long time ago.”
“Which boss, Dennard? Work with me. We’re almost there.”
“I ain’t working with you. You get me outta here, then I tell you who it was.”
Ballard was not happy that Dorsey was now trying to write the rules of the deal.
“Nah, that isn’t how it works,” she said. “You help me, then I help you.”
“I am helping you,” Dorsey protested.
“No, you’re not. You’re just bullshitting. Tell me who gave the clear-out order and then I talk to your PO. That’s the deal, Dennard. You want it or not? I’m just about out of here. I hate being in jail.”
Dorsey sat quietly for a moment, then nodded his head as though he had convinced himself internally to make the deal.
“I think he dead now anyway,” he said.
“Then giving him up won’t be a problem, will it?” Ballard said. “Who was it?”
“An OG name a Kidd.”
“I want a real name.”
“That was his name.”
“What was his first name?”
“Elvin. Almost like Elvis. Elvin Kidd. He had that alley and he was the boss.”
“Did he tell you to clear out for the day or what?”
“No, he just said like take the day off. We were like already out there and he came up and said you all scram outta here.”
“Who is ‘we’? You and who else were already out there?”
“Me and V-Dog—but that motherfucker dead too. He not going to help you.”
“Okay, well, what was V-Dog’s real name?”
“Vincent. But I don’t know his last name.”
“Vincent Pilkey?”
“I just tol’ you I don’t know. We just work together back then. I don’t know no names.”
Ballard nodded. Her mind was already going back to that alley twenty-nine years ago. A picture was forming of Dorsey and Pilkey running dope in the alley and Elvin Kidd driving in and telling them to clear out.
It made her think Elvin Kidd knew what was going to happen in that alley to John Hilton before it happened.
“Okay, Dennard,” Ballard said. “I’ll call your PO.”
“Talk to him good.”
“That’s the plan.”
BOSCH
12
Bosch parked his Jeep Cherokee on the north side of Fremont close enough to walk without his cane to Station 3 of the Los Angeles Fire Department. The station was of modern design and sat in the shadow of the towering Department of Water and Power Building. It was also less than six blocks from the Starbucks where Jeffrey Herstadt had suffered a seizure and had been treated by Rescue 3 EMTs on the day of the Judge Montgomery murder.
As he approached, Bosch saw that both of the double-wide garage doors were open and all of the station’s vehicles were in place. This meant nobody should be out on a call. The garage was two rows deep. A ladder truck took up one whole slot while the other three contained double rows of two fire engines and an EMT wagon. There was a man in a blue fireman’s uniform holding a clipboard as he inspected the ladder truck. Bosch interrupted his work.
“I’m looking for a paramedic named Albert Morales. Is he here today?”
Bosch noticed that the name over the man’s shirt pocket was SEVILLE.
“He’s here. Who should I tell him wants to see him?”
“He doesn’t know me. I’m just passing on a thank-you from someone he took care of on a call. I have…”
From an inside coat pocket Bosch produced a small square pink envelope with Morales’s name written on it. Bosch had bought it at the CVS in the underground mall by the federal building.
“You want me to give it to him?” Seville asked.
“No, it sort of comes with a story I need to tell him,” Bosch said.
“Okay, let me see if I can find him.”
“Thanks. I’ll wait here.”
Seville disappeared around the front of the ladder truck and went into the station house. Bosch turned and looked out from the station. There was an embankment supporting the 110 freeway and Bosch could hear the sound of traffic from above. He guessed that it was not moving very quickly up there. It was right in the middle of rush hour.
He raised his foot and bent his knee a few times. It was feeling stiff. “You wanted to see me?”
Bosch turned and saw a man in the blue LAFD uniform, the name MORALES above his shirt pocket.
“Yes, sir,” Bosch said. “You’re Albert Morales, Rescue Three?”
“That’s right,” Morales said. “What is—”
“Then this is for you.”
Bosch reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Morales. The paramedic opened and looked at it. He seemed confused.