The Dark Hours (26 page)

The reinterview of Dennis Hoyle took place at 8 p.m. at the Van Nuys Division detective bureau. Bettany, Kirkwood, and Donovan were on hand and prepped Ballard on key points that she needed to get on the record. Hoyle was accompanied by his attorney, Daniel Daly, who vetted the immunity deal his client signed. Hoyle was getting off easy, agreeing to plead guilty to conspiracy to commit fraud in exchange for his testimony against Abbott and possibly others. He would take his chances in front of a judge as far as sentencing went. The deal was predicated on his honesty and his claim that he had never engaged in the planning of or had foreknowledge of the murders of people who had accepted loans from the consortium. It was the sweetheart of all sweetheart deals on paper, but Donovan and his superiors had made the call. The unspoken plan most likely included an effort to break the agreement by catching him in a lie. And barring that, the sentencing judge could always be informed of the extent of the crimes Hoyle had engaged in with his cohorts and max out the sentence for the conspiracy plea.

Ballard told Bettany and the others to stay outside the interrogation room and watch the interview on a screen. Since Hoyle claimed he would talk only to her, she didn’t want him to think she and Bettany were a team. She entered the small gray room
and sat across from Hoyle and his attorney. She put her phone on her thigh, a concession to Donovan that would allow him to message her if he didn’t like what he saw on the screen.

“First off, I have to make the legal boundaries of this interview clear,” Ballard said. “You need to acknowledge that if you lie directly to me or lie in any way by omission, then the deal is off and you will be prosecuted for conspiracy to commit murder.”

Hoyle opened his mouth to answer but Daly reached his arm out like a father stopping a child from walking blindly into the street.

“He understands,” Daly said. “That’s in the deal.”

“I still want to hear it from him,” Ballard said.

“I understand,” Hoyle said. “Let’s get this over with.”

“I know it’s not in the deal but I also want something else,” Ballard said.

“What?” Daly said.

“I want him to give up any and all ownership rights in the property that was owned by Javier Raffa,” Ballard said.

“Forget it,” Daly said.

“Then you can forget this deal,” Ballard said. “I’m not going to let him walk away from this and then take that place away from the family of the man he and his asshole buddies had killed.”

Immediately her phone buzzed and Ballard looked down at the message from Donovan.

What the fuck are you doing?

She looked back up and directly at Hoyle, hoping her righteous glare would make him submit.

This time Hoyle put his arm out to stop his attorney.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll agree to that.”

“You don’t have to,” Daly said. “We already negotiated the deal, and that’s not — ”

“I said it’s okay,” Hoyle said. “I want to do it.”

Ballard nodded.

“The deputy district attorney will prepare an amendment to the deal,” she said.

She paused for a moment to see if Daly had more to say. He didn’t.

“Okay, let’s start,” Ballard said.

And so it went. Hoyle’s story did not change much from the first time he told it to Ballard. This time, though, she asked questions designed to elicit more about the origins of the factoring consortium and whether the plan from the start was to eventually murder those who borrowed its money. Ballard knew that eventually lawyers for Abbott and anybody else taken down in the investigation would study the transcript of the interview for any crack through which reasonable doubt might slip into the case.

The interview wrapped near midnight and then Hoyle was taken by Bettany and Kirkwood to be booked and released on the conspiracy charge. Meanwhile, Donovan filed formal charges against Abbott with a no-bail hold until his arraignment. Bail would assuredly be argued then.

Soon after concluding the interview and watching them take Hoyle away, Ballard got a text from Robinson-Reynolds. He didn’t waste words.

You’re back on the bench.

She didn’t bother to reply. She went home without a thank-you from anybody. She had turned what was supposed to look like a random New Year’s Eve accident into a credible
multiple-murder case, but because she had stepped at least one foot over the line, she needed to be pushed to the side and even hidden if possible from the lawyers for the defense.

She had left Pinto in his travel crate and had to wake him up when she got home. She snapped his leash to his collar and took him for a walk. It was a clear and crisp night. The lights of the houses in Franklin Hills sparkled and she walked that way, passing no one on the streets. Even the Shakespeare Bridge was deserted and the houses down below it were dark. After the dog did his business, she bagged it and turned around.

The late-night cable news was all a rehash of the day’s staggering events in Washington. There was now word that a police officer had succumbed to injuries sustained while defending the Capitol. All cops go to work each day, thinking it could be their last. But Ballard doubted that officer ever imagined that he would give his life in the line of duty in the way he did. She went to sleep with dark thoughts about the country, her city, and the future.

By virtue of her job, Ballard was used to sleeping during the day and did not change her schedule on her days off. Consequently, she slept lightly and stirred every time any noise penetrated her dozing. Pinto, still getting used to his new home and surroundings, also slept fitfully, moving about in his crate every hour or so.

A text woke Ballard up for good at 6:20 a.m. — not because she heard it come in but because it lit the screen of her phone. It came from Cindy Carpenter.

How dare you. You are supposed to protect and serve. You do neither. How do you sleep at night?

Ballard had no idea what she was talking about, but no matter what it was, the words shook her.

She wanted to call immediately but held back because she doubted her call would even be answered. Ballard wondered if the text had something to do with Cindy’s residual upset over Ballard’s contacting her ex-husband.

But then another, even more disturbing text came in. This one was from Bosch.

You need to check the paper. You’ve got a leak somewhere.

Ballard quickly got her laptop and went to the
Los Angeles Times
website. Bosch was old-school — he got the actual newspaper delivered. Ballard was an online subscriber. She found the story Bosch was referencing prominently displayed on the home page.

Ballard’s face had grown hot while she read the article. Two paragraphs in, she knew that the department would likely peg her as the anonymous source for the story, since the only named villain was the man who had sought her suspension. She also knew this would not be the end of it. The
Times
was the paper of record and, as such, set the example for most of the other media in the city. There was no doubt that every local news broadcast would jump on this story, and the department would be under the magnifying glass once again.

She read the article one more time and this time took heart in what it didn’t reveal. It made no mention of the attacks all
occurring on holidays, and it did not reveal the pattern of streetlight tampering. The source of the story had been careful about what information about the case got out to the public.

Ballard was confident that she knew who the source was. She picked up her phone and called Lisa Moore. With each ring she grew angrier, so that when the call finally went to voice mail, she was ready to fire with both barrels.

“Lisa, I know it was you. I’ll probably get blamed but I know it was you. You jeopardized an entire investigation just to spite Robinson-Reynolds for putting you on nights. And I know you calculated that I would get the blame for this. So fuck you, Lisa.”

She disconnected, almost immediately regretting the message she had left.

The story played for two days on the TV, radio, and Internet news, largely fueled by a hastily called press conference at the PAB in which an official department spokesman downplayed the
Times
report, saying that evidentiary connections between the crimes were tenuous, but the fact that each case involved two perpetrators seemed to connect the cases. Luckily for the department, the Capitol insurrection clogged airtime and newspaper space, and the story disappeared in the undertow of the larger story. Ballard never heard from Robinson-Reynolds, though his silence seemed to confirm his belief that she was the initial leak. Ballard also never heard back from Lisa Moore, even to deny the accusation she had left in her message.

Another story that didn’t get any traction was the arrest of a well-respected dentist in a murder conspiracy. Ballard was now an outsider on the case but she gathered from a call to Ross Bettany that the investigation was moving slowly. While the arrest of Jason Abbott was put out to the media, the involvement of Dennis Hoyle as a cooperating witness and ex-cop Christopher Bonner as a hit man had been successfully kept quiet. Ballard knew it wouldn’t stay quiet forever, especially when court hearings started, but the department had always operated according to the unspoken policy of
spreading out the hits to its reputation whenever it possibly could.

On Saturday Ballard took a call from Garrett Single, who asked if she and her new dog wanted to come for a hike. Ballard had texted him a photo of Pinto earlier. He suggested Elysian Park because there was so much shade along the way. Ballard had not hiked Elysian since she was a cadet at the nearby police academy. She thought Pinto might enjoy it and, as Single had pointed out, the trail was dog-friendly and likely to be less crowded than other popular hiking spots. Ballard agreed to meet there, as Single was coming in from his home in Acton, which was far on the other side of the San Gabriel Mountains. Ballard knew of the community as a place where many firefighters lived because they only went to and from work once a week, working three days on and sleeping in the firehouse, then getting four days off. A couple two-hour drives a week were not a big deal.

Monday morning Ballard woke up in Acton, having spent the last thirty-six hours with Single. His home was wedged into a rugged mountainside in the Antelope Valley, where, he had warned her, coyotes and bobcats roamed freely. She made coffee while Garrett showered, and stepped out onto a back deck that overlooked a garden that he told her he had been working on for months. She had a blanket from the couch wrapped around her shoulders. The time with Single had been good but Ballard had felt uneasy and frustrated the whole time. She had been pushed out of everything. The Raffa case had moved into the prosecutorial phase, so that didn’t bother her as much as being completely out of the Midnight Men investigation. What doubled the frustration was the fact that she had been vilified by Cindy Carpenter and had heard nothing from Lisa Moore on how the case was being pursued. It left her with little confidence
that anyone was getting closer to identifying and apprehending the tag team rapists.

She was pacing in the brush and running the facts of the case through her mind when she heard Single come up behind her. He put one arm around and used the other to pull her hair back from the nape of her neck. He kissed her there.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“About what?” she asked.

“The view. I mean, look at this place.”

Ballard hadn’t even noticed. She hadn’t been looking past her thoughts on the case.

“It’s pretty,” she said. “Stark.”

“It is,” Single said. “It’s why I like it.”

“No, you like it for the real-estate value and the wide-open space. Cops and firefighters always want space.”

“True. But I gotta be honest. I like the sharp ridges out here.”

“Then I gotta be honest. It’s too far away from the water.”

“What do you mean? We got the Santa Clara River right over that ridge.”

“Yeah, I’m talking about an ocean. The Pacific Ocean. Last I heard, you can’t surf the Santa Clara River — even when there is water in it.”

“But it’s a good counterpoint, mountains and oceans, isn’t it? The desert and beach have got at least one thing in common.”

“Sand?”

“You guessed it.”

Single laughed, and when he stopped, Ballard could hear her phone buzzing on the kitchen counter inside. It was the first time in thirty-six hours, and she had thought she was outside the limit of her cell service, but here it was: a call.

“Let me try to grab that,” she said.

“Come on,” Single said. “We’re talking about the future here.”

She hurried in through the door but the phone’s buzz died before she reached it. She saw the number was a city exchange but didn’t recognize it. She hesitated calling back blindly. It could be about her Board of Rights hearing. She still didn’t know if it would take place as scheduled after she had been taken off suspension and then placed back on. She waited and soon a voice-mail message notice appeared on the screen. She reluctantly played it back.

“Detective Ballard, Carl Schaeffer here from the Bureau of Street Lighting. I saw all the fuss on the news about the so-called Midnight Men and I’m guessing that’s your case and the cat is sort of out of the bag. But just in case it still matters, I wanted to let you know we got a maintenance call today on a light over in Hancock Park and I’m here if you want to know the details.”

Ballard immediately called Schaeffer back.

“Detective, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Schaeffer. I got your message. Did you send anyone out to repair the light?”

“No, not yet. I thought I’d check with you first.”

“Who called it in?”

“A guy we know over there — we sort of call him the mayor of Windsor Square. It’s not on his street but people there just sort of know he’s the go-to guy on streetlights and other neighborhood stuff. He called it in this morning. Just now, in fact. Right before I called you.”

“Can I get his name?”

“John Welborne.”

Schaeffer also gave Ballard the phone number Welborne had called from to initiate the maintenance request.

“Was I right about the Midnight Men — them being why you came here about the lights?”

“What makes you say that? Was there something in the paper about streetlights?”

“Not that I saw. I just kinda put two and two together. The paper said three different women were attacked, and you had asked about three different streetlights.”

“Mr. Schaeffer — Carl — I think you could’ve been a smart detective, but please don’t talk to anyone about this. That is not fully confirmed and it could hurt the investigation if it becomes public knowledge.”

“Completely understood, Detective. I have not told a soul and I certainly won’t. But thanks for the compliment. I thought about being a cop way back in the day.”

Single came in from outside and saw the serious look on Ballard’s face. He held his hands wide as if to ask if there was anything he could do. Ballard shook her head and continued with Schaeffer.

“Can you give me the address of the streetlight we’re talking about, Mr. Schaeffer?” she asked.

“Sure can,” Schaeffer said. “Let me look it up here.”

He read off an address on North Citrus Avenue.

“Between Melrose and Beverly,” he added helpfully.

Ballard thanked him and disconnected. She looked at Single.

“I’ve gotta go,” she said.

“You sure?” he said. “I don’t go back in till tomorrow. I thought maybe we’d take the dog and — ”

“I have to. This is my case.”

“I thought you didn’t have any cases anymore.”

Ballard didn’t answer. She went back to his bedroom to gather her things and get Pinto out of his travel crate, where he was sleeping. She had been using clothes out of the surf bag she kept in the car, while Pinto had been treated to canned food from a mini-market in what passed for the town center of Acton. Her stay
with Single had started as just a home-cooked meal from Single’s backyard barbecue — he had revealed in Elysian Park that he prided himself on good barbecue and she had put him to the test.

After walking Pinto in the scrub area surrounding Single’s home, she loaded her things and the dog into the Defender and was ready to go.

At the open door, he kissed her goodbye.

“You know, this could work,” Single said. “You keep your place in town and surf when I’m on shift. Three days on the water, four in the mountains.”

“So you think because you make a great pulled chicken sandwich that a girl’s just gonna swoon and fall into your arms, huh?” she said.

“Well, I also make a great brisket if you’d go back on the red meat.”

“Maybe next time I’ll break down.”

“So there will be a next time?”

“A lot’s going to ride on that brisket.”

She gently pushed him away and got in the Defender.

“You be careful,” he said.

“You too,” she replied.

On the way south to the city she waited until she cleared the Santa Clarita Valley and had solid phone service before calling the number she had been given for John Welborne. The call went to the
Larchmont Chronicle,
the community newspaper that served Hancock Park and its surrounding neighborhoods, for which, she learned, he was the publisher, editor, and reporter. That he was a member of the media made the call a bit tricky. Ballard needed information from him but didn’t want it to end up in his paper.

“Mr. Welborne, this is Detective Ballard with the LAPD. Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Yes, of course. Is this about the article?”

“Which article?”

“We published a story Thursday about the fundraiser for the Wilshire Division officer who lost his wife to Covid.”

“Oh, no, not that. I’m with Hollywood Division. I need to talk to you off the record about something unrelated to the newspaper. I don’t want it in your paper — not yet, at least. This is an off-the-record conversation. Okay?”

“Not a problem, Detective Ballard. We’re a monthly, and it’s a couple weeks till deadline anyway.”

“Good. Thank you. I want to ask you about your call this morning to the Bureau of Street Lighting. You left a message reporting that there’s a streetlight out on North Citrus Avenue.”

“Uh, yes, I did leave a message, but Detective, I didn’t suggest that any crime had been committed.”

“Of course not. But it may have some connection to a case we’re investigating. That’s why we were alerted and that’s also the part I want to keep quiet.”

“I understand.”

“Can you tell me who told you about the light being out?”

“It was a good friend of my wife, Martha’s. Her name is Hannah Stovall. She knew she could call me and I’d alert the appropriate authorities. Most people don’t even know we have a Bureau of Street Lighting. But they know that I know people who know people. They come to me.”

“And she called you?”

“Actually, no, she sent an email to my wife, asking for advice. I took it from there.”

“I understand. Can you tell me what you know about Hannah Stovall? For example, how old do you think she is?”

“Oh, I would say early thirties. She’s young.”

“Is she married, lives alone, has roommates — what?”

“She’s not married and I’m pretty sure she lives by herself.”

“And do you know what she does for a living?”

“Yes, she’s an engineer. She works for the Department of Transportation. I’m not sure what she does but I could ask Martha. This sounds like you are seeing if she fits into some sort of profile.”

“Mr. Welborne, I can’t really share with you what the investigation is about at this time.”

“I understand, but of course I’m dying to know what is going on with our friend. Is she in danger? Can you tell me that?”

“I — ”

“Wait — is this about the Midnight Men? It’s in the same general area of at least two of the attacks.”

“Mr. Welborne, I need you to stop asking me questions. I just want to assure you that your friend is not in danger and we will take all safeguards possible to keep it that way.”

Ballard tried to change the subject.

“Now, do you know where the streetlight is in relation to her home? How close is it?”

“From what I understand, it is right in front of her house. That’s why she noticed it was on one night, out the next.”

“Okay, and can you give me a phone number for Hannah Stovall?”

“Not offhand, but I can get it. Can I call you back at this number in a few minutes? I just need to call my wife.”

“Yes, I’m at this line. But Mr. Welborne, please don’t tell your wife what this is about, and please don’t you or your wife call Hannah about this. I need to keep her line clear so I can call her myself.”

“Of course, I’ll just tell her that the number’s needed for the streetlight maintenance order.”

“Thank you.”

“Stand by, Detective. I’ll get right back to you.”