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  On the Dancers case, she still had summaries to write regarding her interviews with Haddel’s parents and fellow waitresses. She knew it would take her to the end of shift. She settled back into the workstation, opened up a new file on the computer screen, and was about to start the summary of her talk with Nelson Haddel, when her cell buzzed and she saw it was Lieutenant Munroe.

  “L-T.”

  “Ballard, what’s your location?”

  “I’m in detectives. Filing paper. Heard you guys laughing it up a little while ago.”

  “Oh, yeah, we’re having a ball up here. I need you to take a statement.”

  “From who? I’m in the middle of this and still have the assault I haven’t even touched yet.”

  “A guy just walked in, said he was in the Dancers when the shooting started. He says he has photos.”

  “You sure? It’s a no-photo place.”

  “He snuck a couple selfies.”

  “Anything in them?”

  “They’re dark but he’s got something. Looks like muzzle flash. Maybe they can enhance at the lab. That’s why I need you to take this guy and see what he has and what he knows. He’s sitting on a chair in the lobby. Grab him before he decides he doesn’t want to wait any longer.”

  “On my way. But hey, L-T, I’m out of here in sixty. You signing any greenies tonight? I still haven’t touched the assault and now I have this witness.”

  She was referring to the green voucher cards a shift supervisor had to sign to authorize overtime.

  “I’ll give you an hour, that’s it,” Munroe said. “I can’t blow the bank in one night. That should give you enough time to talk to this guy and finish up the paper on the Dancers. The assault you can push till tomorrow—as long as the vic is still kickin’. I can’t stall a homicide.”

  “Last I checked, she came through surgery.”

  “Okay, then come take this guy off my hands.”

  “Roger that.”

  Ballard clicked off. She was pleased that she would not be turning the Ramona Ramone case over to the CAPs unit at the end of shift. That was more important to her than the overtime. On her way to the front lobby she cruised by Jenkins’s desk and saw that he was still typing with two fingers. She told him about the witness and added that they’d scored an hour of overtime, if he wanted it. He said no thanks, he had to get home.

  7

  The witness was a twenty-three-year-old clubber named Zander Speights. Ballard took him back to the detective bureau and put him in a small interview room. He was a slightly built man wearing a dark blue hoodie over gray sweatpants. He kept his hands in the pockets of the hoodie, even when he sat down.

  “Zander—is that your real name?” Ballard began.

  “Short for Alexander,” Speights said. “I like Zander better.”

  “Okay. What do you do for a living, Zander?”

  “Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I’m sellin’ shoes at the moment.”

  “Where?”

  “On Melrose. A place called Slick Kicks.”

  Ballard was not taking notes. When they entered the room, she had adjusted the thermostat, which actually turned on the room’s recording devices. It was wired for sight and sound.

  “So you were in the Dancers earlier this morning when the shooting started?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” Speights said. “I was there.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “No, I was with my boy Metro.”

  “What’s Metro’s real name?”

  “I don’t rightly know. He’s just Metro to me.”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “He works at Kicks. Met him there.”

  “So when did you get to the Dancers?”

  “Last night, ’round midnight.”

  “And you saw the shooting?”

  “No, it was like behind me. Two booths away, so I had my back to it. But just when it went down, I was taking selfies and I got the first shot. It’s crazy.”

  “Show me.”

  Speights took his iPhone out of his hoodie’s pocket and opened up the photo archive.

  “I took three on Live Photos,” he said. “You can swipe through.”

  He put the phone down on the table between them and slid it to Ballard. She looked at the photo on the screen. Front and center was Speights himself but over his right shoulder Ballard could see the dark outlines of the other crowded booths. No one was identifiable. It would be up to the video unit in the lab to try to enhance.

  “Keep going,” Speights urged. “I got the shot.”

  The second photo Ballard swiped to was similar to the first, but the third grabbed her interest. The camera had captured a flash of light in the second booth over Speights’s shoulder. He had indeed taken the photo just as the shooting started. He got the muzzle flash. Because the phone’s camera had the Live Photos feature, it captured a second of action leading to the actual freeze-frame. Ballard tapped it several times to replay and saw that within that single second she could see the killer’s arm raise the weapon and then the shot.

  Ballard used her fingers to expand the photo and center the screen on the flash of light. It was very blurry but she could tell that the shooter’s back was to the camera. She could see the indistinct lines of the back of his head and his right shoulder. His right arm was up, holding the weapon and pointing it directly across the booth at the man who would moments later slump to his left and hang out of the booth. The victim’s face was blurred as he recoiled at the sight of the weapon.

  “I bet they can enhance that,” Speights said. “Is there a reward or something?”

  Ballard looked over the top of the phone at Speights as his motives for coming into the station became clear.

  “A reward?” she asked.

  “Yeah, you know, like for helping solve the case,” Speights said.

  “I don’t know anything about a reward.”

  “Well, there should be. I was in danger.”

  “We’ll have to see about that later. Tell me what happened when the shooting started. What did you do?”

  “Me and Metro got under the table and hid out,” Speights said. “Then the shooter ran by our table and shot some more people. We waited until he was gone and then got the fuck out of there.”

  Ballard texted the photo showing the muzzle flash to her own phone.

  “Mr. Speights, do you know where Metro lives?” she asked.

  “Nah, I don’t know,” Speights said. “This was the first time we hung out and we both had our own wheels.”

  “Okay, we’ll find him through Slick Kicks if we need to.”

  “He’ll be there.”

  “And I’m sorry but we’re going to have to keep your phone for a while.”

  “Ah, fuck, man, you just texted the photo to yourself, right? You got the photo.”

  He pointed to his phone.

  “I understand,” Ballard said. “But your phone has the Live Photos feature and the lab may be able to pull stills from each moment of the shot you took. It looks like the gun is clearer before the recoil from the shot. It could be very useful, and I think they’ll want the camera it was taken on, not just a copy of the photo. They need to look at your phone.”

  “Fuck me. How long?”

  “I’m not sure but hopefully just a few days.”

  She knew that was a lie. He would probably never get the phone back, as it would be held as evidence. But she decided to leave that for someone in RHD to explain.

  “What do I use for a phone in the meantime?” Speights demanded.

  “Maybe you can borrow one or get a burner,” Ballard offered.

  “Fuck me.”

  “I want you to stay here while I print a property-received receipt.”

  “Goddamn. There better be a reward or something.”

  Ballard stood up.

  “I’ll look into that. And I’ll be back as soon as I print the receipt.”

  Ballard left the room w
ith the phone and walked over to Jenkins, who was still typing.

  She held the phone up in front of him and tapped the photo, setting the one-second video into motion.

  “Holy shit,” Jenkins said.

  “Yeah,” Ballard said. “Million-to-one shot.”

  “Can you see anybody?”

  “Not the shooter—his back’s to the camera. But I think the lab might be able to identify the gun off it.”

  “Nice. You tell Olivas?”

  “About to.”

  Back at her borrowed workstation she realized she had left her rover in the car and did not have a phone contact for Lieutenant Olivas. His number had been blocked when he called her earlier. She could send him an e-mail but that wasn’t expedient. Opening her phone, she scrolled through the contacts until she came to the name Ken Chastain. She had kept his number, even after he betrayed their partnership and she had been transferred out of RHD. She sent him a text.

  Tell Olivas: walk-in witness at 6 was in nearby booth. Has cell photo of shooting. Lab may be able to enhance.

  After sending it, she printed a property receipt for Speights. She went to grab it out of the printer and then drop by the break room to get a coffee. She allowed herself one cup a night, and it was time. It would give her enough of a boost to finish the shift and then an hour’s paddle on the bay. After that, she would crash and recuperate. On her way she called across the room to Jenkins but he passed on the caffeine.

  In the break room she was putting a coffee pod into the brewer when her phone dinged with a return text from Chastain.

  Who’s this?

  He had not even kept her number in his phone. She answered with her old radio designation from RHD—King65—and also forwarded the muzzle-flash photo. If Chastain had a newer iPhone, he would be able to see the split-second video image and realize its value.

  By the time she got back to her workstation her phone was buzzing with a blocked call. She expected it to be Chastain but it was Olivas.

  “Detective, do you still have the witness there?”

  “Yes, he’s in an interview room. Probably wondering where I’ve been for twenty minutes.”

  “Hold him. Chastain is en route and will be there in five minutes. Does he have any other photos?”

  “Not like the one I sent Chastain.”

  “And you have the phone?”

  “On my desk and about to get the guy to sign a receipt.”

  “Good. Chastain will be taking the phone too.”

  “Got it.”

  “Have you filed your reports, Detective?”

  “About to. I booked the victim’s property here and just have a couple interview summaries to finish.”

  “Finish and file, Detective.”

  Again, Olivas disconnected before she could respond. She looked up and saw that Jenkins had sauntered over.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Chastain is coming for the phone and the witness. We’re still out of it.”

  “Good. I’m almost done with the burglary.”

  He started to turn back toward his corner of the room.

  “Don’t you ever want to see something through?” Ballard asked.

  Jenkins didn’t turn around.

  “Not anymore,” he said.

  He kept going. Ballard then heard pounding on the door of the interview room. Zander Speights had just found out he had been locked in. Ballard went to the room with the receipt and opened the door.

  “What the fuck? You lock me in here like I’m a prisoner or somethin’?”

  “You’re not a prisoner, Mr. Speights. It’s department policy. We can’t have civilians roaming around the station.”

  “Well, what’s going on? Where’s my phone?”

  “I have your phone and another detective is coming to talk to you. It’s his case and he thinks you may be quite an important witness. In fact, you should talk to him about the reward. I’m sure he can help with that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. So I need you to step back and have a seat and calm down. Here is the receipt for your phone. I need you to sign one copy and keep the second. Detective Chastain should be here in a few minutes.”

  She pointed to his seat at the table and he started moving back from the door. He sat down and signed the receipt with a pen she handed him. She then took the signed copy and retreated, closing the door and locking it again.

  Chastain got there five minutes later, walking in from the back hallway. He came directly to Ballard at her workstation.

  “Where’s my witness?”

  “Room two. His name is Zander Speights. And here’s the phone.”

  She had already put it in a clear plastic evidence bag. She held it up to him and he took it.

  “Okay, I’m going to take him.”

  “Good luck.”

  He turned and headed toward the interview room. Ballard stopped him.

  “Oh, I also booked the waitress’s property, if you want it,” she said. “When I talked to the parents a little while ago, her father said her boyfriend was a drug pimp. Made her sell in the club.”

  Chastain nodded.

  “Interesting but probably not related,” he said.

  “I didn’t think so,” Ballard said. “But the stuff’s there in property. If you don’t take it, it’ll get sent down with the next courier pickup.”

  Chastain did another one-eighty to head toward the interview room but then once again walked back to her.

  “How’s Lola doing?”

  “She’s good.”

  “Good.”

  Then nothing. But Chastain didn’t move. Ballard finally looked up at him.

  “Something else?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” he said. “You know, Renée, I’m really sorry about how everything worked out back then.”

  Ballard looked at him for a moment before answering.

  “It took you two years to say that?” she finally said.

  He shrugged.

  “I guess so. Yeah.”

  “You’re totally forgetting something you told me back then.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about when you told me to back off the complaint. About how you said Olivas was going through a bad divorce and losing half his pension and not acting right and all of that bullshit—as if it made what he did to me okay.”

  “I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

  “You didn’t even keep my number in your phone, Kenny. You washed your hands of the whole thing. You’re not sorry about anything. You saw an opportunity back then and you took it. You had to throw me under the bus but you didn’t hesitate.”

  “No, you’re wrong.”

  “No, I’m right. If anything, you feel guilty, not sorry.”

  She stood up at her desk to get on equal footing with him.

  “Why the hell did I ever think you would do the right thing and back your own partner?” she said. “I was stupid to trust you, and here I am. But you know what? I’d rather be working the late show with Jenkins than be with you at RHD. At least I know what to expect from him.”

  Chastain stared at her for a moment, color rising in his cheeks. Ballard remembered that he had an easy tell when people got to him. And she had gotten to him. Next came the awkward smile and the mouth wipe. She had hit the trifecta.

  “Okay, then,” he finally said. “Thanks for the witness.”

  He turned toward the interview room.

  “Anytime,” Ballard called after him.

  She grabbed the empty coffee cup off the desk and headed toward the squad room exit. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Chastain.

  8

  The hour of overtime she had worked pushed Ballard into the heavy morning traffic moving west toward the beaches. The army of service industry workers advanced from the east side to their minimum-wage-and-under jobs in hotels, restaurants, and neighborhoods where they could not afford to live. It took Ballard
almost an hour to get to Venice. Her first stop was to pick up Lola from the overnight caretaker and then they headed to the beach.

  The only good thing about the slog across the city was that the marine layer was already burning off by the time she got to the sand, and she could see that the bay was cobalt blue and as flat as glass. She parked in one of the lots by the north end of the boardwalk and went to the back of her van. She let Lola out, grabbed one of her tennis balls out of the basket by the wheel well, and threw it across the empty parking lot. The dog took off after it and had it in her mouth in three seconds. She dutifully brought it back to Ballard, who threw it a few more times before putting it back in the basket. The dog whined at having such a short game.

  “We’ll play later,” Ballard promised.

  She wanted to get out on the water before the wind kicked up.

  Ballard’s van was a white Ford Transit Connect that she’d bought used from a window washer who was retiring and closing his business. It had eighty thousand miles on it but the previous owner had taken good care of it. Ballard kept the ladder racks on the roof for carrying her board, and as in the work car she shared with Jenkins, the rear storage area of the van was compartmentalized with cardboard boxes.

  Before exiting Hollywood Station, Ballard had changed into faded jeans and a red hoodie over a tank suit, leaving her work suit in a locker. She now stripped down to the tank and put the other clothes in a backpack along with underwear, socks, and a pair of New Balance trainers. She next grabbed one of the wet suits off a hanger hooked on the inside wall of the van. She squeezed into it and pulled the rear zipper up her back with a short tether. She took a big beach towel out of one of the boxes and stuffed that into the backpack last. She clipped her tent bag to the side of the backpack and put it on over both shoulders.

  Lastly, she grabbed a multigrain-and-chocolate energy bar out of an insulated cooler she kept food in and was ready. She closed and locked the van, then pulled her board off the roof racks. It was an eight-foot One World board with the paddle attached to clips on the deck. It was a bear to bring down off the van’s roof and she was careful not to bounce the tail fin on the asphalt. She put her fingers into the center grip hole and carried the board under her right arm while using her left to feed herself. She trudged toward the water barefoot and walking gingerly until she was off the parking lot and into the sand. Lola followed dutifully.