Dark Sacred Night (Harry Bosch Universe #31)(50)

Ballard knew that Aaron would be home alone, since all lifeguards worked day shifts. She patted the dolphin on the head and led Lola through the gate by her leash. The sliding door on the lower level had been left half open for her and she entered without knocking.

Aaron was lying on the couch, eyes closed, balancing a bottle of tequila on his chest. He startled when Lola went over and licked his face. He grabbed the bottle before it fell.

“You okay?” Ballard asked.

“I am now,” he said.

He sat up and smiled, happy to see her. He held out the tequila but she shook her head.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said.

Ballard knew what he was feeling. Any death experience—whether it was a close call for oneself or involvement in the death of another—led to some kind of primordial need to affirm not having been vanquished from existence. That affirmation could turn into some of the best sex ever.

She pointed Lola to a dog bed in the corner. Aaron had a pit bull but he had apparently taken her to the kennel even though he had the day off. Lola dutifully climbed onto the round cushion, circled it three times, and finally sat down with a view of the sliding door. She would be on guard. There was no need to even close the slider.

Ballard went over to the couch, grabbed Aaron’s hand, and led him toward the stairs. He started to speak as they went up.

“They took him off life support at nine last night after they got all the family there. I went over. I sort of wish I hadn’t. Not a good scene. At least they didn’t blame me. I got to him as fast as I could.”

Ballard quieted him when they got to the bedroom door.

“No more,” she said. “Leave that out here.”

Thirty minutes later they were lying entwined and spent on the floor of Hayes’s bedroom.

“How’d we get off the bed?” Ballard asked.

“Not sure,” Hayes said.

He reached over to the tequila bottle on the wood floor but Ballard used her foot to push it out of reach. She wanted him to hear what she said next.

“Hey!” Hayes said, feigning upset.

“Did I ever tell you that my father drowned?” Ballard asked. “When I was a kid.”

“No, that’s awful.”

He moved in closer to her to console her. She was turned and looking at the wall.

“Did it happen here?” Hayes asked.

“No, Hawaii,” Ballard said. “That’s where we lived. He was surfing. They never found him.”

“I’m sorry, Renée. I—”

“It was a long time ago. I always just wished they had found him, you know? It was so strange that he just got on his board and went out there. And then he never came back.”

They were silent for a long moment.

“Anyway, I was thinking about that with that guy yesterday,” Ballard said. “At least you brought him in.”

Hayes nodded.

“That must’ve been awful for you back then,” he said. “You should have told me this before.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just sort of…you know, your father drowns at the beach and now you mostly sleep at the beach. You and me, with me being a lifeguard. What’s that say?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think about it.”

“Did your mother remarry?”

“No, she wasn’t around. I don’t think she knew for a long time.”

“Oh, man. This story just gets worse.”

He had his arm around her, just below her breasts. He pulled her against his chest and kissed the back of her neck.

“I don’t think I’d be here doing what I do if things hadn’t happened the way they did,” Ballard said. “There’s that.”

She reached her leg out, hooked the tequila bottle, and slid it in so he could reach it.

But he didn’t. He kept her in his embrace. She liked that.





Bosch





23



Bosch waited for Lourdes in the Starbucks a block from the station. He sat at a tall bar table that allowed him to keep his left leg straight. He had just come from Dr. Zhang’s and the knee was feeling good for the first time in two weeks. He knew that bending the joint might cut that relief short. That was inevitable with walking, but for now he kept it straight.

He had gotten Lourdes a latte and himself a straight black. They had agreed to meet away from the station after she did some preliminary intelligence gathering while he was getting needles stuck in his leg.

Lourdes arrived before the latte got cold.

“How’s the knee?” she asked.

“Feeling pretty good at the moment,” Bosch said. “But it won’t last. It never does.”

“Have you ever gotten a cortisone shot?”

“No, but I’m ready to try anything but a knee replacement.”

“Sorry, Harry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. What did you find out?”

The night before, LAPD SWAT had moved in on the house Bosch and Lourdes had located in Sylmar and arrested four men, all SanFers gang members, and including one man who was found in a bed, suffering from a gunshot wound to the stomach. He was thirty-eight-year-old Carlos Mejia and he was the suspected shooter of Martin Perez. The other three were low-level gangsters most likely assigned to watch over Mejia and bring the doctor to him. All four were arrested on various gun and drug charges as well as probation violations.