The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(73)

Don’t waste time on this. It’ll be on the phone. Move on.

Ballard was annoyed because she knew Bosch was right. A search warrant for the phone would produce the number or numbers Dupree had called after Dulan’s, and that would likely lead to the message carrier. She needed to move the story on to Elvin Kidd.

“Okay, never mind who you called,” she said. “Tell me about Townes. He’s the hitter inside?”

Dupree shrugged. He didn’t want to verbally acknowledge it.

“Yes or no, Marcel?” Ballard pressed.

“Yeah, he does a piece of work now and then,” Dupree said.

“Do you have to get approval from a higher-up to do something like this? You call somebody for approval to hit Dorsey?”

“I tell some people but it wasn’t like ‘approval.’ Just to let them know we had a piece of business and Kidd was paying. Look, you going to take care of me on this, right? Like you said.”

“I’ll tell the D.A. you’ve given ‘substantial assistance to the investigation.’”

“That ain’t shit. We had a deal.”

“If we get Kidd, ‘substantial assistance’ will mean a lot.”

“I’m going to need witness protection after this.”

“That will be on the table.”

Ballard felt another vibration on her thigh and looked down at her phone.

Tell him we want him to call Kidd, say the job is done.

Ballard nodded. It was a good idea. They had the wire up on Kidd for another two days and they could legitimately record the call. It might or might not draw an admission about the Hilton case, but it could sew up the conspiracy-to-commit-murder case. Ballard understood that sometimes you know a suspect is good for one crime but you settle for getting him for another.

“There’s one more thing we’re going to need you to do, Marcel,” she said. “We’re going to set up a phone call between you and Kidd. You’re going to tell him that Dorsey is dead, and we’re going to see what he says. And you’re going to ask him why he wanted him hit in the first place.”

“Nah, I’m not doin’ that,” Dupree said. “Not till I got something in writing on ‘substantial assistance.’”

“You’re making a mistake, Marcel. You bring in the D.A. now to write that up and they’re going to bring in a lawyer for you and the whole thing will blow up bigger than we can handle on this level. We miss our chance to do this with Kidd and it’s ‘Fuck you, Marcel Dupree.’ That’s the opposite of ‘substantial assistance.’ I’ll charge you with conspiracy to commit murder for hire and go home happy with just that.”

Dupree said nothing.

“This room stinks,” Ballard said. “I’m going to go out and get some fresh air. When I come back, you tell me whether you want us to make a case against you or Elvin Kidd.”

Ballard got up, pocketed her phone and picked up the envelopes, then started around the table toward the door.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Dupree said.

Ballard looked back at him and nodded.

“Okay, we’ll set it up.”





36


Ballard rolled out of work at six a.m. on Saturday morning after an uneventful shift on Watch Three. She had spent most of the night writing a detailed summary of the events that took place the day before on the Hilton investigation. This was a report she wasn’t turning in to anyone yet. She was operating completely off the reservation on the Hilton case with the hope that it would be easier to ask for forgiveness than permission—especially if she bagged Elvin Kidd. In that case, the summary report might be needed at a moment’s notice.

After leaving the station, she drove out to Venice and did a short paddle through the morning mist, with Lola sitting on the board’s nose like the figurehead on the prow of an old ship. After getting cleaned up, she waited until 8:30 to make a call, hoping she would not be waking anybody up.

When Ballard had worked at RHD, everybody had a go-to in every part of the casework: a go-to forensic tech, a go-to judge for warrants, a go-to prosecutor for advice and for filing charges on the wobblers—the cases that took some fortitude and imagination to pursue in court. Ballard’s go-to at the District Attorney’s Office had always been Selma Robinson, a solid and fearless deputy D.A. in the Major Crimes Unit who preferred the challenge cases over the gimmes.

Because the nature of the midnight beat was to turn cases over to other detectives in the morning, Ballard had gone to the D.A.’s Office few times in the four years she had been assigned to the late show. In fact, she was not sure the cell number she was calling for Selma Robinson was still good.

But it was. Robinson answered in a sharp, alert voice, and it was clear she had kept Ballard’s cell on her contacts list.

“Renée? Wow. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t wake you?”

“No, I’ve been up for a while. What’s up? It’s good to hear your voice, girl.”

“You too. I’ve got a case. I want to talk to you about it if you have some time. I’m living in Venice now. I could come your way, maybe buy you breakfast. I know this is straight out of the blue but—”

“No, it’s fine. I was just about to get something. Where do you want to meet?”