The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(70)

But Devlin persuaded Dupree to step out of the car and put his hands on the roof. His partner came around the car and stood by the rear passenger door as Devlin moved in and cuffed Dupree, taking one hand off the roof at a time. He then searched his pockets, putting the burner phone, a wallet, and a white envelope on the roof as he found them.

Several people honked their horns as they drove by the scene, apparently protesting another arrest of a black man by a white officer.

Dupree himself did not seem to protest anything. As far as Ballard could tell, he had said nothing since stepping out of the car. She watched as he was walked to the rear door of the patrol car and placed in the back seat.

With the suspect secured, Ballard and Bosch emerged from the van and approached the Chrysler, the driver’s door still open.

“If he has a gun in there, it will be within reach of the driver’s seat,” Bosch said. “But you should search, not me.”

“I will,” Ballard said.

But first she went over to Devlin and his partner.

“Take him to South and put him in a room at the D-bureau,” she said. “I talked to Lieutenant Randizi and he cleared it. We’ll check the car and lock it up, then we’ll get over there.”

“Roger that,” Devlin said. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Thanks for the help.”

The two unies got in their car and took off with Dupree. Ballard went to the Chrysler, snapping on gloves as she approached.

“You worried about a warrant?” Bosch asked.

“No,” Ballard said. “Driver left his door open and has a past record of gun violence. If there is a weapon in here, we have a public safety issue. I think that qualifies as a ‘search incidental to a lawful arrest.’”

She was quoting from a legal opinion that allowed vehicle searches if public safety was an issue.

Ballard leaned into the driver’s seat through the open door. The first thing she checked was the center-console storage compartment, but there was no weapon. She leaned farther in and checked the glove box. Nothing.

She lowered herself and reached under the driver’s seat. There was nothing on the floor. She reached up blindly into the springs and electronic controls of the seat and her hand found an object that felt like the grip of a handgun.

“Got something,” she announced to Bosch.

She pulled hard and could feel tape coming free. She brought a small handgun out from beneath the seat, black tape still attached to it.

“Now we’re talking,” she said.

She put the gun on the roof of the car with the other property found on Dupree’s person. She picked up the phone and thumbed it open. On the screen she saw that Dupree had missed a call from a 213 number that looked vaguely familiar to her. It had come in just a few minutes before, while Dupree was being arrested. She took out her own phone and called the number. It connected right away to a recording that said it was a Los Angeles County number that did not accept incoming calls.

“What is it?” Bosch asked.

He had come up next to her.

“Dupree just missed a call from a county line that doesn’t accept incoming calls,” Ballard said. “Only calls going out.”

“Men’s Central,” Bosch said. “Somebody was calling him from jail.”

Ballard nodded. It sounded right. The phone didn’t appear to be password protected. Ballard wanted to know whom Dupree had been talking to before his arrest, but she did not want to risk the case by looking through the phone’s previous-call list without a warrant.

“What’s in the envelope?” Bosch asked.

Ballard closed the phone and put it back on the car’s roof. She then took up the envelope. It was not sealed. She opened it and thumbed through the stack of currency inside.

“Thirty one-hundred-dollar bills,” she said. “Kidd was paying Dupree—”

“To hit someone,” Bosch said. “You need to call Men’s Central and get Dennard Dorsey in protective custody as soon as possible. Call right now.”

Ballard tossed the envelope back on the roof of the car and pulled her phone again. She called the Men’s Central number she had stored on her phone for when she wanted to set up an inmate interview. It was the only number she had.

She got lucky. Deputy Valens answered the call.

“Valens, this is Ballard. I was in there a couple days ago to talk to a guy in the Crips module named Dennard Dorsey. You remember?”

“Uh, yeah, I remember. We don’t get many looking like you in here.”

Ballard ignored the comment. This was an emergency.

“Listen to me,” she said. “That conversation sparked something and you need to grab Dorsey and put him in protective custody. Nobody can get near him. You got that?”

“Well, yes, but I need an order from command for that. I can’t just—”

“Valens, you’re not listening. This is about to go down now. A hit was put on Dorsey and it could happen any minute. I don’t care what you need to do, just get him out of that module or he’s going to get whacked.”

“Okay, okay, let me see what I can do. Maybe I’ll move him into the visiting room and tell him you’re coming back. Meantime, I’ll work on a transfer.”

“Good. Do it. I’ll call you back when I know more.”