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“Finally,” she said. “Colleen, show me what you’ve got on our boys from St. Vincent’s.”
“Well, good and bad news,” Hatteras said. “I’m pretty sure I located all three. The bad news is that Weeks is in Hollywood Forever.”
“He’s dead?”
“Died in a car accident three years ago.”
“Where?”
“He hit a tree on Los Feliz Boulevard driving home after a concert at the Greek. I found a story in thePasadena Star-News.I guess because he grew up there and had sort of made good in Hollywood, they ran a story.”
“What did he do in Hollywood?”
“He was a producer of independent films. None that I ever heard of, but stuff that made the festival circuits.”
“Can you pull up the story? I’d like to read it.”
“I have a printout.”
Hatteras opened a file folder and took out a sheet of paper. Ballard scanned the story and noted that there had been a female passenger in the car who survived but sustained critical injuries. Her name was not given in the article. At that time, the accident was under investigation by the LAPD traffic division.
“Then there’s this,” Hatteras said.
She handed Ballard another document from the folder, a printout of a four-page lawsuit against the estate of Taylor Weeks filed by Amanda Sheridan, the passenger in the car crash. Her lawsuit said Weeks was driving under the influence of alcohol and Ecstasy at the time of the crash and had refused Sheridan’s repeated requests to pull over and let her drive. According to the lawsuit, an angry Weeks yelled, “How about if I pull over here?” and drove intentionally into an oak tree ten feet off the road, killing himself and seriously injuring Sheridan.
“This is good stuff, Colleen,” Ballard said. “They would have drawn blood during the autopsy, and it should still be at the coroner’s office if this lawsuit is still active.”
She flipped to the front page of the lawsuit to check the court stamp.
“Filed in September of ’22,” she said. “It’s probably still winding its way through the courts. I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to get his DNA.”
“I was hoping that would be the case,” Hatteras said.
“I have to go downtown in a bit. I’ll go by the coroner’s office and see what they have.”
“You have to see the captain?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Is something wrong? I feel like there is.”
“Everything’s fine, Colleen. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Hatteras was the last person Ballard wanted to confide in about her predicament. She changed the subject.
“What about Bennett and Best? You found them?”
“Yes. Van Ness had the wrong island—Victor Best is currently the head chef of a restaurant in Kona on the Big Island. I don’t have his home address but I have the restaurant’s.”
She started typing on her computer.
“Good,” Ballard said. “Did you look for any news stories on serial rapists over there?”
“I did but didn’t find anything. But here is the restaurant.”
A website for a restaurant called Olu Olu came up on the screen. It showed outdoor seating with a stunning ocean view. Hatteras opened a pull-down menu and clicked onWho We Are. A photo and bio of the restaurant manager appeared. She scrolled down to the next photo, and Ballard was looking at a man wearing a white chef’s jacket and smiling warmly at the camera.
“That’s Victor Best,” Hatteras said. “Head chef and kitchen manager.”
