Dark Sacred Night (Harry Bosch Universe #31)(58)

It was now after midnight and time to conduct the welfare check Lieutenant Mason had assigned Ballard. She used a BOLO template to put together a wanted-for-questioning sheet on Eagleton that would be distributed at all roll calls. After including screen grabs of his three most recent mug shots, she sent the package to the printer and signed off the computer. She was ready to go.

Her first stop was the watch office to drop off the BOLO sheet with Lieutenant Munroe and to tell him she was leaving the station to handle the welfare check. Munroe said the officers assigned to patrol in the neighborhood in question were finishing up a minor call but he would send them to her location as soon as they were clear.

The missing man was named Jacob Cady. His home was in a four-story condominium building on Willoughby just a block from the West Hollywood border. Ballard pulled over against a red curb and looked around for her backup. She saw nothing and used her rover to check with Munroe, who said the patrol unit had not cleared their call.

Ballad decided to give it ten minutes before she went in alone. She pulled her phone and checked her texts. There had been no response from Bosch to her message about John the Baptist and none to a text she had sent earlier to Aaron Hayes to check on his well-being. She didn’t think she should text him again, for fear she might wake him up.

She checked her email next and saw that the blind email she had sent to Scott Calder with the standard USC address had already been answered. She opened it to find that she had reached the correct Calder and that he would be happy to meet early the next morning in his office to discuss the LAPD’s defunct GRASP program. He gave his office location in the Viterbi building on McClintock Avenue and said he had an opening in his schedule at eight a.m.

After ten minutes, there was still no sign of a backup unit. Ballard decided to check out Jacob Cady’s online profile. In a just a few minutes she was able to determine that he was the twenty-nine-year-old son of a City Hall player of the same name who held several city maintenance contracts. The son apparently didn’t want any part of the father’s business and described himself on Facebook as a party planner. The photos on Facebook revealed a jet-set lifestyle for the young Cady. It looked like he favored Mexican resorts and the company of men. He was tan and trim with feathered blond hair. He liked form-fitting clothing and Tito’s vodka.

Twenty minutes after arrival, Ballard got out with her rover and headed toward the entrance to the condo building. She radioed the watch office and reported that she was going in solo.

The documents left in her mailbox by Lieutenant Mason said that Cady owned the two-bedroom condo and rented space in it to a roommate named Talisman Prada. On the two prior welfare checks by patrol officers, Prada had answered the door and said that Cady had met a man in a bar two nights before and gone home with him. But this did not explain why Cady was no longer answering texts, email, or phone calls. Or why his car was parked in a reserved spot in the condominium’s underground garage.

Ballard pressed the buzzer at the gate three separate times before a sleepy voice answered.

“Mr. Cady?”

“No, he’s not here.”

The connection was ended. Ballard buzzed again.

“What?”

“Mr. Prada?”

“Who’s this?”

“The police. Will you open the gate?”

“I told you, Jacob is not here. You woke me up.”

“Again, Mr. Prada, this is the police. Open the gate.”

There was a long beat of silence before the gate buzzed, and Ballard pulled it open. She checked the street for the backup unit and saw nothing. She looked around the entry area. There was a rack of mailboxes with a shelf below it where some unclaimed newspapers were left. Ballard grabbed one and used it to prop open the gate for the backup officers, if they ever arrived. She entered and, while waiting for the elevator, used the rover to check on them. This time Munroe said the car was on the way.

Ballard took the elevator to the third floor. Down the hallway to the right she saw a man standing in front of the open door to a unit. He was wearing silk sleeping pants and no shirt. He was small but muscular with jet-black hair.

Ballard headed toward him.

“Mr. Prada?” she asked.

“Yes,” the man said. “Can we get this over with? I’d like to get back to sleep.”

“Sorry for the bother, but there’s still no word from Jacob Cady. It’s been forty-eight hours since we got the report and this is now a criminal investigation.”

“Criminal? What is criminal about a guy shacking up with somebody?”

“We don’t think that’s what’s going on. Can you step into the apartment so I can enter?”

Prada walked back inside and Ballard entered after him. She assessed him as she walked in. He was no more than five five and 125 pounds. It was clear he had no weapon on him. She left the door open and Prada noticed.

“Do you want to close that, please?” he asked.

“No, let’s leave it open,” Ballard said. “A couple uniform officers are coming.”

“Whatever. Look around. He’s not here. Just hurry, please.”

“Thank you.”

Ballard stepped into the living room and did a 180 sweep. The condo was nicely decorated in a modern style. Gray-washed wood floors, armless sofa and chairs, glass coffee table. Everything carefully coordinated like a picture in a magazine. The adjacent dining room featured a square table with stainless-steel legs and matching chairs. The wall beyond was hung with a 10 x 6 painting consisting of black slashes on a field of white.