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“Wait a minute. He drowned. He didn’t abandon us.”
“You’re right. It wasn’t an intentional abandonment. It wasn’t a choice, like your mother’s. He drowned. But he died pursuing a lifestyle that he knew could be dangerous. So his leaving was like an abandonment of you both. She handled it poorly, but, you know, some people are not as strong as others. You are strong, Renée. So you have shouldered this weight in your mind, but sometimes the mind grows tired and drops its defenses, and things come forward.”
Ballard was silent as she considered this. She had come to Elingburg a month after Tutu had peacefully slipped away in hospice. The insomnia had begun soon after her death, and a Google search had produced Elingburg as a sleep-disturbance expert.
“And I know today was bad with your things getting stolen at the beach,” Elingburg said. “But don’t let that deter you from going. The water is your salvation. You need to get out on the water as much as you can.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
6
AT FIVE P.M.Ballard was posted in her Defender in front of the PAB—the Police Administration Building—on First Street. She had a clear view up the slight incline of Spring Street at the exit gate from the garage beneath the Criminal Courts Building. Tom Laffont was in his personal car at the top of the incline at Spring and Temple. Paul Masser was positioned in one of the pink chairs in Grand Park next to the courthouse. This put him closest to the exit from the garage where the building’s judges parked. His angle would allow him to see the license plates on the vehicles leaving the garage. They were looking for a Mercedes C 300 Coupe that belonged to Judge Jonathan Purcell. It was as black as a judge’s robe, according to Anders Persson, who’d gotten the registration from the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Lilia Aghzafi was posted in her car on Temple so she could swing around the corner and pick up Masser once Purcell’s car was spotted and surveillance ensued.
Ballard picked up her rover and pressed the send button. “Everybody got their eyes open?”
She received a mic click from each of the others. Satisfied, she picked up her cell phone and called a number she had written in hernotebook. She put the phone on speaker so she wouldn’t have to take her eyes off the courthouse garage exit.
The call went immediately to voicemail.
“This message is for Seth Dawson,” Ballard said. “This is Detective Renée Ballard with the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m following up on the car burglary that occurred on the Pacific Coast Highway at Topanga in November. I have some questions I’d like to ask you. I can be reached anytime at this number. I would appreciate a call back.”
She disconnected and reviewed her words. Dawson would have a recording of her talking about an investigation that was not hers to conduct, which could be problematic should things blow up in her face. But the way she had worded the message gave her a plausible out, because she’d never said that she was conducting an investigation, only that she wanted to ask him questions.
The rover crackled with Masser’s voice.
“Black Mercedes coming up the ramp.”
Ballard grabbed the binoculars from the center console and trained them on the garage exit onto Spring. The black Mercedes soon appeared and held still as its driver waited to make the turn. It was a one-way street. The driver had to go right and come toward Ballard’s position.
Ballard grew impatient waiting for Masser to report. Without taking her eyes from the binocs, she grabbed the rover.
“Do we have the plate?”
She waited and then turned her focus slightly left to pick up Masser. She saw him walking out of the park and talking into his sleeve, but she was not hearing him on the rover.
“Is anyone getting audio from Paul?” she barked into the rover. “He’s talking but I can’t hear him.”
“No audio from Paul,” Laffont said.
“Can’t hear him,” Aghzafi reported.
Ballard had to think quickly. The Mercedes had turned onto Spring and was coming to the traffic signal at First Street. The fact that Masser had walked out of Grand Park and was out on the sidewalk indicated that the black Mercedes was the one they were looking for. She keyed the mic. “Lilia, go get Paul and let us know about the plate. Copy?”
“Copy.”
At First Street the Mercedes turned right and headed up to Broadway. Ballard pulled the Defender away from the curb and moved into the left lane. She had to make a U-turn, and the five o’clock traffic was thick with oncoming vehicles. She brought the rover back up to her mouth. “Tom, are you on the move?”
“No, waiting on orders.”
“Damn it, go. I’m stuck. He went north on First toward Broadway. Go.”
“On my way.”
Ballard saw an opening in the traffic and dropped the rover into the center console so she could use two hands to yank the wheel into a U-turn. She headed toward the intersection at Spring, looking a block ahead for the Mercedes. She saw it moving on Broadway. Her guess was that it was going to the 101 freeway entrance. From there, the freeway quickly reached an interchange where Purcell could go in any direction and be lost to them.
Ballard had to hit the brakes when the car in front of her stopped early on a yellow. She slapped the steering wheel. “You asshole!”
