Dark Sacred Night (Harry Bosch Universe #31)(56)

Ballard always ordered breakfast there because it seemed like a meal that was impossible to mess up. Denny’s was their choice because it was more convenient to Rourke and was part of Ballard’s ongoing thank-you for the warning about the hooded man. Also, both women were fans of the movie Drive and it was at this location that the film’s female lead worked as a waitress.

Now Ballard told Rourke about her involvement in the investigation of the nine-year-old murder of Daisy Clayton and her meeting Harry Bosch. Rourke had never met him or heard of him.

“It’s weird,” Ballard said. “I like working with him and think I can learn a few things. But at the end of the day, I don’t think I can trust him. It’s like he’s not telling me everything he knows.”

“You gotta be careful of those guys,” Rourke said. “On the job and off.”

Rourke was in her green flight suit, which went well with her red-brown hair, kept short like most of the other female coppers Ballard knew. She was petite and no more than a hundred pounds, which must have been a plus in an air unit where weight was a factor in lift and fuel consumption.

Rourke was more interested in hearing about Ballard’s other cases, and the ground-side story of the incidents she had been involved in from above, so Ballard told her about the dead woman whose cat ate her face and the young Peeping Toms on the roof of the strip bar.

When it was time to go, Ballard picked up the check, and Rourke said the next one was hers.

“Call me if you need me,” Rourke said, her usual goodbye.

“Fly like an eagle,” Ballard answered with hers.

Once in her van, Ballard’s goodbye to Rourke reminded her of the man called Eagle who had gotten baptized on the same night as Daisy Clayton. She had forgotten to follow up on him and planned to do it as soon as she returned to Hollywood Station and could access the moniker files in the department’s database.

She checked her phone to see if she had gotten a call from Bosch during dinner. There were no messages and she wondered if he would turn up tonight. She headed up the 101 to the Sunset exit and got to Hollywood Station two hours before the start of her shift. She had wanted to get there before PM watch went off duty. She needed to talk to Lieutenant Gabriel Mason, who worked PM watch and who had been a sergeant nine years ago and assigned as Hollywood Division liaison to the department’s GRASP program.

Since Hollywood was busiest during PM watch, which roughly ran from three p.m. to midnight, there were two lieutenants assigned to supervise the shift. Mason was one of the two and Hannah Chavez was the other. Ballard did not know Mason that well, because her limited experience with PM watch had been with Chavez. She decided that the straight-on approach would be best.

She found him in the break room, with deployment calendars spread out on a table. He was a bookish-looking administrator with glasses and black hair parted sharply on the left side. His uniform looked crisp and new.

“Lieutenant?” Ballard said.

He looked up, annoyed with the interruption, but then his scowl disappeared when he saw Ballard.

“Ballard, you’re in early,” he said. “Thanks for responding.”

Ballard shook her head.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah, I put a message in your box,” Mason said. “You get it?”

“No, but what’s up? I was actually going to ask you something.”

“I need you to do a welfare check.”

“During graveyard?”

“I know it’s unusual, but there’s something hinky going on with this one. Comes from the tenth floor. A missing guy, hasn’t responded to phone calls or social media in a week. We’ve gone by a few times today and his roommate says he’s out every time. Not much we can do, but I figure if you knock on the door in the middle of the night, the guy’s going to be home or not. And if not, then we go to the next step.”

The reference to the tenth floor meant the OCP—Office of the Chief of Police—on the tenth floor of the Police Administration Building.

“So, who’s the guy?” Ballard asked.

“I Googled him,” Mason said. “Looks like his father’s friends with the mayor. A high-dollar donor. So we can’t let it drop. If he’s still not home tonight, send a report to Captain Whittle and he’ll report to the OCP about it. And we’ll be done with it or not.”

“Okay. You have the name and address?”

“It’s all in your box. And I’ll put it on the activity report for your lieutenant.”

“Got it.”

“Now, you wanted to see me about something?”

He pointed to the chair across the table from him and Ballard sat down.

“I’m working a cold case from ’09,” she said. “Teenage runaway working the streets was found dumped in an alley off Cahuenga. Her name was Daisy Clayton.”

Mason thought for a moment and then shook his head.

“Not ringing any bells,” he said.

“I wasn’t expecting it to,” Ballard said. “But I asked around. Back then you were the division liaison for the GRASP program.”

“Jesus, don’t remind me. What a nightmare that was.”

“Well, I know the department dumped the program when the new chief came in, but what I’m wondering about is what happened to all the Hollywood crime data.”