“Yeah, yeah, I understand my fucking rights. Who you all sayin’ I killed?”
“John Hilton. Remember him?”
“I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about.”
Ballard had anticipated such a deflection. She also anticipated that this might be her only moment to confront Kidd. He would most likely demand a lawyer and she would never get close to him again. She would also soon be yanked off the case because all of her off-the-reservation actions would come to light with his arrest. It was not the right place to do what she was about to do, but to her, it was now or never. She pulled her mini-recorder from her back pocket and hit the Play button. The recording of the wiretap between Kidd and Marcel Dupree was cued to a particular moment. Kidd heard his own voice come from the device:
A piece of work I had to handle back then. A white boy who owed too much money.
Ballard clicked off the recorder and studied Kidd’s reaction. She could see the wheels grinding, then coming to a halt at the phone call he had received from Dupree. She could tell he knew he had just experienced his last moments of freedom.
“We’re going to take you back to L.A. now,” Ballard said. “And you’ll get a chance to talk to me if—”
She was interrupted by a voice in her ear. The man in the observation post.
“Somebody’s coming out. Black female, white bathrobe. She’s got … I think … gun! Gun! Gun!”
Everyone reacted. Weapons were drawn and the Special Ops guys all turned toward the front of the house. Through the narrow space between the two black SUVs, Ballard saw the woman on the stone walk leading from the front door to the driveway. She wore an oversize robe—probably her husband’s—that had allowed her to conceal a handgun in the sleeve. It was up and out now, and she was yelling.
“You can’t take him!”
Her eyes then fell on Ballard, who stood there as an open target in the clearing between the two SUVs and the pickup. Ballard held the recorder in her hand instead of her gun.
Ballard saw the woman’s arm come up. It almost seemed to be in slow motion. But then the movement stopped, the angle of the gun still down. Then the side of her head exploded in blood and tissue before Ballard even heard the shot come from a distance. She knew it had come from the OP.
The woman’s knees bent forward and she collapsed on her back on the stone path her husband had likely installed himself at their house.
Officers rushed forward to secure the gun and check on the woman. Ballard instinctively took a step in that direction as well and then remembered Kidd. She turned back to him, but he was gone.
Ballard ran out to the street and saw Kidd running, hands still cuffed behind his back. She took off after him, yelling to the others.
“We’ve got a runner!”
Kidd was fast for a man his age wearing construction boots and running with his arms behind his back. But Ballard closed on him before the end of the block and was able to grab the chain between his cuffs and pull him to a stop.
Now she pulled her gun and held it at the side of her thigh.
“Did you kill her?” Kidd said breathlessly. “Did you motherfuckers kill her?”
Ballard was out of breath herself. She tried to gulp in air before responding. She felt sweat popping on her neck and scalp. One of the SUVs was barreling down the street toward them. She knew they would grab him now and these would possibly be her last moments with Kidd.
“If we killed her, it’s on you, Elvin,” she said. “It’s all on you.”
42
The killing of Cynthia Kidd had brought out the Critical Incident Vehicle, which was a thirty-two-foot RV repurposed as a mobile incident command and interview center. The CIV was parked two doors down from the Kidd home. The street was taped off at both ends of the block, with members of the media standing vigil at the closest point. The physical and forensic investigation continued at the house while all officers involved in the morning’s incident were debriefed by detectives from the Force Investigation Division in the second room of the CIV, the room dubbed “the Box” because of its perfectly square dimensions.
FID detectives interviewed the Special Ops officers one by one about the arrest gone sideways, and Ballard was listed as last to be questioned. Each officer had a union defense representative at their side, because they all knew that the outcome of the shooting investigation could determine their career paths. There was a somber silence hanging over everything. A highly trained SWAT team had killed the wife of a suspect under arrest. It was a colossal failure of tactics. Added to that, the dead woman was black and this would invariably draw massive public scrutiny and protest. It would invariably lead to rumors that the victim had been unarmed and simply gunned down. The true story—as bad as it was on its own—would be bent to the needs of those with agendas or axes to grind in the public forum. Everybody on scene knew this and it resulted in a blanket of dread descending over the proceedings on the residential street in Rialto.
It was almost three hours after the shooting before Ballard was finally interviewed. The session with an FID detective named Kathryn Meloni lasted twenty-six minutes and was largely focused on the tactics Ballard had used during the Kidd arrest and the tactics she had observed being used by the arrest team. Ballard’s defense rep, Teresa Hohman, happened to have been in Ballard’s academy class, where they competed closely in all the physical challenges for top female recruit but always had beers and cheers at the academy club after. It was that bond that had prompted Ballard to ask her to be her rep.
Up until the final minutes of the questioning, Ballard believed she had given no answer that could come back on her or the Special Ops team in terms of mistakes or poor tactics. Then Meloni hit her with a trap question.
“At what point did you hear Lieutenant Gonzalez or anyone else order someone to either watch or guard the front door?” she asked.
Ballard took several seconds to compose her answer. Hohman whispered in her ear that there was no good response, but that she had to answer.
“There was a lot of yelling,” Ballard finally said. “Screaming at Elvin Kidd in the truck. I was concentrating on him and my role in the arrest. So I didn’t hear that particular order when it was given.”
“Are you saying that there was an order and you just didn’t hear it?” Meloni asked. “Or was it that there was no order given?”
Ballard shook her head.
“See, I can’t answer that one way or the other,” she said. “I had a laser focus on what I was doing and needed to be doing. That’s how we’re trained. I followed my training.”
“Going back now to the planning meeting prior to the operation,” Meloni said. “Did you tell Lieutenant Gonzalez that the suspect was married?”
“I did.”
“Did you tell him or members of the team that the wife could be expected to be in the home?”
“I think we all knew, making the arrest so early in the morning, that we could expect her to be on scene. In the house.”
“Thank you, Detective. That’s it for now.”
She reached over to turn the recorder off but then stopped and turned back to Ballard.
“One more thing,” she said. “Do you believe that killing Mrs. Kidd may have saved the lives of officers today?”
This time Ballard didn’t pause.
“Absolutely, yes,” she said. “I mean, we were all wearing vests and those guys had ballistic helmets and so forth, so you can never be sure. But I was standing there in the open in front of the pickup and she could have shot me. Then for a moment she hesitated and got hit herself.”
“If she hesitated, do you think she was not intending to fire her weapon?” Meloni asked.
“No, it wasn’t that. She was going to shoot. I could feel it. But she hesitated because I was between her and her husband—until he took off running, that is. I think she thought that if she shot and missed me, she might hit him. So that’s when she hesitated. Then she got hit and maybe that saved my life.”
“Thank you, Detective Ballard.”
“Sure.”
“If you don’t mind staying in the room, your captain wants to come in and speak to you next.”
“My captain?”
“Captain Olivas. You were working this case for him, correct?”
“Oh, yes, correct. Sorry, I’m still a little shaken up.”
“Understandable. I’ll send him in.”
Ballard was surprised that Olivas was on scene. They were more than an hour away from the city and she hadn’t expected him to be involved in the FID investigation at all. Her mind raced and she began to feel dread at the realization that Olivas must have been informed about the case that had led to Elvin Kidd. He knew what she had done.
“He told me he wanted to speak to you alone,” Hohman said. “Is that okay?”
She and Teresa still met for beers from time to time, even though their paths in the department were quite different. Ballard had previously told Hohman of her history with Olivas.
“Or I can stay,” she said.
“No,” Ballard said. “I’m okay. You can send him in.”
The truth was Ballard didn’t want a witness to what might come out or happen next, even if that witness was her own friend and defense rep.
After Teresa left, Olivas entered the CIV, walked through the outer room and into the Box. He silently took a seat across the table from Ballard. He stared at her for a moment before speaking.
“I know how you did it,” he said.
“Did what?” Ballard said.
“Got my signature on the wiretap warrant.”
Ballard knew there was no use denying the truth. That wasn’t the right move here.
“And?”
“And I’m willing to play along.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got a year until I’m out. I don’t need another fight with you and, right now, this is another feather in my cap. We took down a murderer, cleared a thirty-year-old case.”
“We?”
“That’ll be how it plays. We both win. You keep your badge, I look good. What’s not to like about that?”
“I guess that woman who got her head blown off might find something not to like.”
“People do stupid things in high-stress situations. Gangbanger’s wife? There will be no blowback on this one. Internally, at least. There will be protests and Black Lives Matter and all of that. But internally she doesn’t matter in this equation. She’s collateral damage. What I’m saying, Ballard, is that I could take you down for this. Take your badge. But I’m not. I’m going to give you credit for this. And you give me credit right back.”
Ballard knew what was happening. The command staff of the department was known to watch out for their own. Olivas was angling for one more promotion before he pulled the pin on his career.
“You want to make deputy chief, don’t you?” she said. “Going out on a DC’s pension, that would be sweet. Add a corporate security job to that and you’ll be rolling in the green, huh? Living on the beach.”
City pensions were based on salary at the time of retirement. There was a long history in the department of promotions within command ranks just prior to retirement—with city taxpayers footing the bill. There was also a history of punitive demotions among rank-and-file members that lowered their pensions and payouts. Ballard suddenly flashed on the legal fight Harry Bosch had engaged in after his retirement. She didn’t know all the details, but she knew the department had tried to fuck him over.
“My business is my business,” Olivas said. “All we need right now is to agree on a course of action.”
“How do I know you won’t try to fuck me over in the end?” Ballard said.
“I thought you would ask that. So this is what we do: once the smoke clears here, we go back to L.A. and hold a press conference—you and me—and we tell the story. That’s your edge. Once it’s public record, it would look bad for me to turn around and do something against you before I leave. Understand?”
Ballard found the idea of being part of a press conference with her oppressor and nemesis revolting.
“I’ll pass on the press conference,” she said. “But I’ll share credit with you and keep my badge. And I don’t need an edge. If you do try to come back on me in any way before you quit, I’ll tell the world about this dirty little deal and you’ll go out as a lieutenant instead of a deputy chief. Understand?”
Ballard reached down to her thigh and picked up her phone. She brought it up and put it down on the table. The recording app was open on the screen. The elapsed time on the file being recorded was over thirty-one minutes.
“Rule number one,” she said. “If IA or FID records an interview with you, you record it yourself. To be safe. I just sort of forgot to turn it off.”
Ballard watched the skin around Olivas’s eyes tighten as anger charged his blood.
“Relax, Captain,” she said. “It makes us both look bad. I can’t hurt you without you hurting me. That’s the point, you see?”
“Ballard,” Olivas said, “I always knew there was something I liked about you besides your looks. You’re a devious bitch and I like that. Always have.”
She knew that he thought the words would hurt and distract her. He made a swipe at the phone but she was ready and grabbed it off the table, his hand brushing over hers. She stood up, her chair falling back against the aluminum wall.
“You want to fight me for it?” she asked. “I’ve gotten strong since you did what you did to me. I will kick your fucking ass.”
Olivas remained seated. He held his hands up, palms out.
“Easy, Ballard,” he said. “Easy. This is crazy. I’m good with what we said. The deal.”
The door to the CIV opened and Teresa Hohman looked in, drawn by the clattering of the chair against the vehicle’s thin wall.
“Everything okay in here?” she asked.
“We’re fine,” Olivas said.
Hohman looked at Ballard. She wasn’t taking Olivas’s word for it. Ballard nodded, and only then did Hohman step back and close the door.
Ballard looked back at Olivas.
“So we have a deal?” she asked.
“I said yes,” he said.
Ballard turned off the recording app and put her phone in her pocket.
“Except now I want something else,” she said. “A couple of things, actually.”
“Jesus Christ,” Olivas said. “What?”
“If Elvin Kidd decides to talk, I do the interview.”
“Not a problem—but he’ll never give it up. That’ll get him killed inside. I already heard he told FID to pound fucking sand when they tried to question him about his own wife getting killed. No interview. He wants a lawyer.”
“I’m just saying: my case, my interview—if there is one.”
“Fine. What’s the other thing?”
“The arson case. Put me back on it.”
“I can’t just—”
“It was a midnight crime, you need a midnight detective. That’s what you say and what you do. You tell the others on the case that there’s a briefing tomorrow at eight to bring me up to date.”
“Okay, fine. But it’s still run out of RHD and my guys are lead.”
“Fine. Then I think we’re done here.”
“And I want the summary report on this on my desk before that meeting.”
“Not a problem.”
She turned toward the door. Olivas spoke to her as she was stepping out.
“You watch yourself, Ballard.”
She looked back in at him. It was an impotent threat. She smiled at him without humor.
“You do that too, Captain,” she said.
43
It took Ballard most of her shift after roll call that night to write up the final summary report on the Hilton case. It had to be complete but carefully worded on three fronts. One was to keep Harry Bosch in the clear, and the second was to include Olivas in a way that would be acceptable u
nder lines of command and protocol. The third front was actually the most difficult. She had left her direct supervisor, Lieutenant McAdams, in the dark through the entire investigation. Her saying in the report that she had been operating under the direction of Captain Olivas covered a lot of things but did nothing to lessen the damage that her actions would do to her relationship with McAdams. She knew that she was going to have to sit down with him sooner rather than later and try to smooth things over. It would not be a pleasant conversation.
Her only break came when she got up from the computer to change her focus and relax her eyes. She took her cruiser and went over to the taco truck to pick up some food to go.
Digoberto was once again working alone. But at the moment at least he was busy with a line of nightingales—three young women and two men—fresh out of a club that had just closed at four a.m. Ballard waited her turn and listened to their insipid chatter about the scene they had just left. Ballard hoped there would be some fresh shrimp left by the time she ordered.
When one of the men noticed the badge peeking through her coat on her belt, their talk dropped to whispers, and then by group consent they offered Ballard the front of the line, since she was obviously working and they weren’t sure what to order. She took them up on the kind offer and got her shrimp tacos, answering routine questions from the group as she waited for Digoberto to put her order together.
“Are you on a case or something?” one of the women asked.
“Always,” Ballard said. “I work graveyard—what they call the late show because there’s always something going on in Hollywood.”
“Wow, like what is the case you’re on right now?”
“Uh, it’s about a young guy—about your age. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He got shot in an alley where they sell drugs.”
“Shot dead?”
“Yeah, dead.”
“That’s crazy!”
“A lot of crazy stuff happens around here. You all should be careful. Bad things happen to good people. So stick together, get home safe.”
“Yes, Officer.”
“It’s Detective, actually.”
She brought the food back to the station in a take-out box, passing a shirtless and fully tattooed man cuffed to the lockdown bench in the back hallway. At her borrowed work space she continued writing her report while eating, careful not to drop crumbs into the keyboard and draw a complaint from the desk’s daytime owner. The foil wrapping had kept everything warm and the shrimp ceviche tacos had not lost their flavor on the ride back.
The Night Fire Page 26