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“Cool.”
Ballard disconnected and thought about things for a moment. She was energized by the lead regarding the surf app. She lay back down on the bed. It took her only thirty seconds to know sleep was not happening. She got up to take a shower.
9
SURF’S UP REPORTEDthat for a second straight day, the break at Staircases was where the juiciest waves in the Southland were rolling in. While Ballard didn’t believe the thieves she was looking for were the smartest criminals she had ever hunted, she did think that they were probably wise enough not to return to the same spot a day after stealing a police officer’s badge and gun. But she headed up the Pacific Coast Highway anyway, just to scope it out through eyes that had a better understanding of the setup.
She had spent a good part of the night working online, matching theft reports against the wave history on the Surf’s Up app. With only one exception, every theft reported by a surfer in the previous twelve months had occurred at the break where the app said the best waves were to be found. It was clear when her analysis was completed that the thieves—and she, too, was convinced it was more than one culprit—were using the Surf’s Up app to plot their crimes.
And now she was driving in predawn darkness toward Staircases on the off chance that the thieves were not as smart as she’d assumed.
It was still dark when she got there. The parking area behind the bluffs was empty. She got out and walked the length of the lot, looking at the ridgeline that ran behind it. There had to be an observationpoint where both the water and the parking area could be seen. This would allow the thieves to watch their intended victims hide their vehicle keys and know exactly when they were out on the water so they could make their move.
The bluff between the parking lot and the water was at its highest point at the north end of the lot. Ballard instinctively knew that it would be the best observation spot. She turned on a mini-flashlight she had retrieved from her equipment bag and trudged up the sandy incline. At the top she found a small clearing in the seagrass where the parking area and the beach were easily viewed. The litter of cans and bottles and other trash seemed to be proof that she was right.
Most of the debris was discarded willy-nilly on the sand or in the seagrass rimming it. But one can of Red Bull stood upright. Ashes around the pop-top hole indicated that it had been used as an ashtray. This seemed unusual to Ballard, considering that the spot was out in the open, and ashes could easily be flicked into the wind.
She snapped on latex gloves and picked up the can by the rim using two fingers so as not to smudge any prints on the barrel. She gently shook the can, and it seemed empty of liquid, but there was something inside. She guessed it was a cigarette butt or the end of a joint. She pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket and put the can in it. It was possible that the can had been handled by the thieves who ripped her off, but it was a long shot. Still, she had learned over the years to follow her hunches. Sometimes they paid off.
Looking out across the beach to the water, she saw one surfer already out there in the early light of dawn. He wore no wetsuit, and Ballard knew it was her breakfast suitor, Van.
Ballard wished she were out there, not standing on a bluff with an evidence bag in her hand. She wondered if there would ever come a time when she didn’t carry latex gloves and evidence bags in her pockets.
She walked back down to the parking lot and saw that there wasnow another vehicle there, a vintage VW van painted light blue with white trim. Windows all around, and surf racks on the roof. It had to be Van’s van, and she wondered if Van was really his name or a nickname he’d picked up because of the VW. Either way, she liked him better for what he drove and its connection to the surf culture of the past.
She got back in the Defender and took the Pacific Coast Highway to the 10 freeway, which would take her through downtown and out to Cal State L.A., where the department’s forensics lab was located.
On the way she stopped at the beach at Topanga and looked around, but there were no surfers and not much action on the break. She looked for the fruit vendor mentioned in the Dawson police report but he was nowhere in sight, and Ballard wasn’t going to wait to see if he showed. The Red Bull can in the evidence bag on the seat next to her was front of mind and she wanted to get it to the lab without further delay.
The PCH curved east through the tunnel in Santa Monica and transitioned to the 10 freeway. Twenty minutes later she was through downtown and taking the exit for the lab complex the LAPD shared with the sheriff’s department. The latent-prints unit was on the first floor, and as it did in the DNA lab three floors above, the Open-Unsolved Unit had a go-to tech there assigned to handle its print requests. But criminalist Federico Beltran was not as accommodating as Darcy Troy. Ballard was hoping that by coming in person to deliver a piece of evidence for examination, she could avoid delay.
After parking, she pulled her phone and called Paul Masser. She didn’t want to run into him in the building and have to explain what the Red Bull can was all about. When he answered, she could tell he was in a moving car.
“Hey, did you get to the lab yet?” she asked.
“Just left. Darcy said she’d put the samples through today.”
“Samples?”
“I gave her both. As you said last night, it would be good to identify the woman and get her genetic signature.”
Ballard nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see her. “Okay, but will it slow Darcy down, having two samples to send to DOJ?”
“I don’t see how it could, but if you want me to call her back and say hold off on the lipstick, I will.”
“No, never mind. I’m overthinking it.”
“She said she’d be quick.”
“Good. Where are you headed now?”
“Norwalk to pull Nicholas Purcell’s birth certificate—if he was born here in the county. After that, back to the barn.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there later. I’ve got an errand to run this morning. Tell Colleen not to panic if I’m late.”
“I’m sure she will anyway.”
Ballard disconnected and realized she had a problem: She needed her ID to get inside the building. She had been to the lab so many times during her career that she knew every one of the security officers who manned the front entrance. More than once, she had been waved through without showing her ID, but she always had it with her. It would be just her luck if a new guard was on post today and asked her for it.
