The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(40)

Lola’s eyes were now expectant and Ballard read the message.

“A short one, Lola. I’ve got work.”

Ballard crawled out of the tent on her knees and looked around. The beach was deserted. Aaron was in the lifeguard stand, slouched so low only the top of his head was visible. Ballard picked the leash up off the sand and Lola heard its metal clip jingle. She shot out of the tent, pushed through Ballard’s legs, and took a seated position in front of her. She looked back over her shoulder at Ballard, ready for the leash to be clipped to her collar.

“Don’t be so pushy. It’s only a short one.”

Ballard put her feet in the sandals she had left outside the tent and they went up toward the boardwalk, where Lola liked to walk and observe the world. Ballard decided to walk north since she had paddled south earlier. They went all the way up to Rose Avenue and then turned around, Lola unsuccessfully tugging against the turn back.

After a half hour it was time for Ballard to get ready. It was almost four and she wanted to get back into the city before the crush of traffic moving east got into full swing. She went to her van, opened a can of food for Lola, and put it in her bowl on the ground in the parking lot. While the dog ate, Ballard looked through the work clothes she had on a hanging bar in the van to make sure she had a clean suit for the night.

After dropping Lola at night care, Ballard avoided the freeways and took surface streets toward Hollywood. She got there by 5:30, parked in the Hollywood Station lot, and changed clothes in the locker room before returning to the parking lot and switching to her city-ride. She then drove to West Hollywood, cruising by the apartment building she believed was the home of Nathan Brazil, John Hilton’s roommate at the time of his murder.

She found parking on Willoughby and walked back to the apartment. There was no security gate, another indication that the building was not a sought-after address. She was able to approach apartment 214 directly and knock. Almost immediately the door was opened by a man with short black hair and a neatly kept beard. Ballard didn’t recognize him from the four-year-old driver’s license photo she had previously pulled up on the computer.

She had unclipped her badge from her belt and was holding it up.

“Mr. Brazil?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m Detective Ballard with the LAPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Well, what’s it about? This is West Hollywood, not L.A.”

“Yes, I know it is West Hollywood. I’m investigating the murder of John Hilton in Hollywood and I know it’s been a long time but I’d like to ask you about him and about his life back when you lived together.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never lived with anyone named that.”

“You are Nathan Brazil, right?”

“Oh, no. I’m Dennis. Nathan’s my husband—I took his name. But I’m sure he doesn’t know anything about a murder. What was—”

“Is he here?”

“No, he’s at work.”

“Where is work?”

Dennis started getting cagey.

“He works at a restaurant, so you can’t just go barging—”

“He still works at Marix?”

His eyes confirmed this by widening slightly in how-do-you-know-that surprise.

“Do you have a card?” he said. “I’ll have him call you.”

“Or you could just text him now, tell him I’m on my way and to be ready. This is a homicide investigation, Mr. Brazil. We don’t make appointments at people’s convenience. You understand?”

“I guess I do now.”

“Good. Thank you for your time.”

Ballard walked back to her car. Marix was around the corner on Flores and it might have been faster to walk but she wanted to park the city-ride out front as part of her show of authority. If Nathan Brazil had the same attitude as his husband, he might need to be reminded of the power and might of the state.

She parked in the red zone in front of the three-step walk-up to the restaurant. Before she got to the first step, the glass door opened, and a man in his mid-fifties and unsuccessfully fighting baldness stepped out and positioned himself on the top step with his hands on his hips. He wore black jeans, white shirt, black tie, and black apron.

“Table for one cop?”

Sarcasm dripped off his words like melted cheese.

“Mr. Brazil?”

“It’s amazing! You only took thirty years to respond to my call.”

Ballard joined him on the top step.

“What call was that, sir?”

“I wanted to talk about my friend. I called many times and they never came and they never called back because they didn’t give a shit about John.”

Ballard saw a holding area near the front door with bar tables where patrons could drink and congregate while waiting to be seated. It was empty now, too early for a wait for a table. Ballard gestured to the space.

“Can we speak privately over there?”

“Sure, but I have one early bird I need to keep an eye on.”

“No problem.”

They moved into the waiting corral and Brazil positioned himself so that he could see through the glass windows of the restaurant to a table of four men.

“How long have you been working here?” Ballard asked.