The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(85)

The cacophony of voices gave way to the single voice of Gonzalez, who ordered Kidd to get out of the truck and walk backward toward the officers. It seemed like minutes, but it took only seconds. Kidd was grabbed by two officers, put on the ground, and cuffed. They then stood him up, leaned him forward over the hood of his truck, and searched him.

“What is this?” Kidd protested. “You come to my home and do this shit?”

Ballard heard her name over the radio earpiece, her cue that it was safe for her to move in and speak to Kidd. She holstered her weapon and walked to the pickup. She was surprised by the pitch of her own voice as the adrenaline held her vocal cords tight; at least to herself, she sounded like a little boy.

“Elvin Kidd, you are under arrest for murder and conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have recited them to you?”

Kidd turned his head to look at her.

“Murder?” he said. “Who’d I murder?”

“Do you understand your rights, Mr. Kidd?” Ballard said. “I can’t talk to you until you answer.”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand my fucking rights. Who you all sayin’ I killed?”

“John Hilton. Remember him?”

“I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about.”

Ballard had anticipated such a deflection. She also anticipated that this might be her only moment to confront Kidd. He would most likely demand a lawyer and she would never get close to him again. She would also soon be yanked off the case because all of her off-the-reservation actions would come to light with his arrest. It was not the right place to do what she was about to do, but to her, it was now or never. She pulled her mini-recorder from her back pocket and hit the Play button. The recording of the wiretap between Kidd and Marcel Dupree was cued to a particular moment. Kidd heard his own voice come from the device:

A piece of work I had to handle back then. A white boy who owed too much money.

Ballard clicked off the recorder and studied Kidd’s reaction. She could see the wheels grinding, then coming to a halt at the phone call he had received from Dupree. She could tell he knew he had just experienced his last moments of freedom.

“We’re going to take you back to L.A. now,” Ballard said. “And you’ll get a chance to talk to me if—”

She was interrupted by a voice in her ear. The man in the observation post.

“Somebody’s coming out. Black female, white bathrobe. She’s got … I think … gun! Gun! Gun!”

Everyone reacted. Weapons were drawn and the Special Ops guys all turned toward the front of the house. Through the narrow space between the two black SUVs, Ballard saw the woman on the stone walk leading from the front door to the driveway. She wore an oversize robe—probably her husband’s—that had allowed her to conceal a handgun in the sleeve. It was up and out now, and she was yelling.

“You can’t take him!”

Her eyes then fell on Ballard, who stood there as an open target in the clearing between the two SUVs and the pickup. Ballard held the recorder in her hand instead of her gun.

Ballard saw the woman’s arm come up. It almost seemed to be in slow motion. But then the movement stopped, the angle of the gun still down. Then the side of her head exploded in blood and tissue before Ballard even heard the shot come from a distance. She knew it had come from the OP.

The woman’s knees bent forward and she collapsed on her back on the stone path her husband had likely installed himself at their house.

Officers rushed forward to secure the gun and check on the woman. Ballard instinctively took a step in that direction as well and then remembered Kidd. She turned back to him, but he was gone.

Ballard ran out to the street and saw Kidd running, hands still cuffed behind his back. She took off after him, yelling to the others.

“We’ve got a runner!”

Kidd was fast for a man his age wearing construction boots and running with his arms behind his back. But Ballard closed on him before the end of the block and was able to grab the chain between his cuffs and pull him to a stop.

Now she pulled her gun and held it at the side of her thigh.

“Did you kill her?” Kidd said breathlessly. “Did you motherfuckers kill her?”

Ballard was out of breath herself. She tried to gulp in air before responding. She felt sweat popping on her neck and scalp. One of the SUVs was barreling down the street toward them. She knew they would grab him now and these would possibly be her last moments with Kidd.

“If we killed her, it’s on you, Elvin,” she said. “It’s all on you.”





42


The killing of Cynthia Kidd had brought out the Critical Incident Vehicle, which was a thirty-two-foot RV repurposed as a mobile incident command and interview center. The CIV was parked two doors down from the Kidd home. The street was taped off at both ends of the block, with members of the media standing vigil at the closest point. The physical and forensic investigation continued at the house while all officers involved in the morning’s incident were debriefed by detectives from the Force Investigation Division in the second room of the CIV, the room dubbed “the Box” because of its perfectly square dimensions.