The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(67)

It was a classic anti-discovery move by the cops. And it may have inadvertently hidden the real killer.

“Which lawyer?” Bosch asked.

“What?” Reyes said.

“Which lawyer in the firm represented Butino?”

“William Michaelson.”

A founding partner. Bosch wrote it down.

“So, you never talked to Manley about this?” he asked.

“Didn’t need to,” Reyes said.

“Did he ever know he was being looked at, that he was a suspect?”

“No, because he wasn’t a suspect. He was a person of interest for about five minutes. You’re acting like we dropped the ball on this but we didn’t. We had a DNA match, a suspect documented to have been in the vicinity, and then we had a confession. You think for one second we were going to spend another minute on Clayton Manley? Think again, Bosch.”

Bosch had what he needed but couldn’t end the call without throwing something back at Reyes.

“You know what, Reyes, you were right about what you said before,” he said. “A killer is out there walking free. But not because of anything I did.”

He disconnected the call.





BALLARD





33


Ballard met Bosch at a gas station on Crenshaw four blocks from Dulan’s. She was driving her van and Bosch was in his Cherokee. She had loaded her paddleboard inside the van to avoid being conspicuous. They pulled up side by side, driver’s window to driver’s window. Bosch had dressed as a detective, right down to his sport coat and tie. Ballard had dressed down and was wearing a Dodgers cap and a sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was still damp from the shower after paddling.

“What’s our plan?” Ballard asked.

“I thought you had the plan,” Bosch said.

She laughed.

“Actually, I caught an all-night case last night and didn’t have much time to scheme,” she said. “I do have good news, though.”

“What’s that?” Bosch asked.

“Marcel Dupree hasn’t paid child support in three years and a judge wants to talk to him about it. He’s got a felony warrant.”

“That helps.”

“So what do you think we should do?”

“You’ve been in there before? What’s the setup?”

“One time. I read somewhere they had the best fried chicken in the city. And peach cobbler. So, I went to see. It’s like a counter—you go down the line, order what you want, then take it on a tray and find a place to sit. They have an overflow room that will probably be in use at one today, end of the lunch hour.”

“We need a signal. In case you need me. We’ve got no radios.”

“I brought my rover in case we want to hook Dupree up after.”

She handed the radio across to Bosch.

“You keep it in case something goes really sideways and you need to call it in. You remember the codes?”

“Of course. Code three—officer needs help. But what if things don’t go sideways? What are we doing?”

“Well, I’m going in by myself. Most people by themselves look at their cell phones. I’ll text you a running play-by-play and a code three if I need you to call in the troops.”

Bosch thought about things before speaking next.

“Once you’re in there and have your phone out, text me a hello so I know we have a clear signal,” he said. “But my question is what are you hoping to accomplish in there? You think you’re going to overhear their conversation, just get a look at Kidd, what?”

“Yeah, I want to get a look at him,” Ballard said. “And if I’m lucky and I’m close, I may hear something. I’ll put my phone on Record but I know that’s a long shot. I want to see if he’s panicked, and if he is then maybe we take it to the next step and really spook him to see what he does. We can also squeeze Dupree.”

“When?”

“Maybe right after lunch. You’re dressed up like a detective and I’m undercover. Maybe we call South Bureau, get a couple unies to pull him over, and then we take him back to South Bureau and borrow a room.”

“How close are the tables in there?”

“Not that close. They wouldn’t have picked the place if they knew people were sitting on top of each other.”

Bosch nodded.

“Okay, let’s see what happens,” he said. “Don’t forget to text me so I know we have a signal.”

“It’s just a first step,” Ballard said. “I want to see who we’re dealing with here.”

“Okay, be safe.”

“You too.”

Ballard drove off. She checked the dashboard clock and saw it was 12:45. She made a U-turn on Crenshaw and headed back toward the restaurant. It was busy and there was no parking directly in front of the establishment. She parked at the curb half a block away and texted Bosch before getting out of the van.

Going in.

She got out, slinging her backpack strap over her shoulder, and walked to the restaurant. Her gun and handcuffs were in the pack.

She entered Dulan’s at exactly one p.m. and was immediately hit with the smell of good food. It suddenly occurred to her that to complete her undercover picture she was going to have to eat. She looked around. Every table in the front room of the restaurant was taken and there was a line of people waiting to go down the hot line and get their food. Acting like she was looking for a friend, she checked out the overflow room to the right. There were empty tables here. She stopped short when she saw a man sitting by himself at a four-top. He was texting on his phone. She was sure it was Marcel Dupree. The round head but now with braids instead of unkempt. He had no food or drink in front of him. He was totally dressed in Crips blue, right down to the flat-billed Dodgers cap. It looked like he was waiting for Elvin Kidd before ordering.