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“Okay, let’s go.”
11
BALLARD PARKED ONSpeedway in front of a garage door at the rear of a walled residence. Three signs on the shabby gray door warned of the consequences of blocking it. But Ballard wasn’t planning on leaving her vehicle. The spot gave her a prime view of Dean Delsey’s second-floor apartment in a run-down complex that had been built seventy-five years ago and designed to look like a boat. The windows in the complex were round like portholes, and the exterior front corner of the retaining wall surrounding the property had anchors attached to it as if it were the prow of a ship. Before settling in to watch, Ballard had done a walk around the apartment complex and had determined that Delsey’s DL address corresponded with the apartment at the east end of the second floor.
The apartment had a balcony that overlooked Speedway. Stacked against its side wall were three or four surfboards. Ballard could see that the sliding door to the apartment was open, and faint, unidentifiable music was floating through.
Someone was home.
Ballard settled in for what she knew could be an hours-long surveillance. She wasn’t sure what her next move would be but she hoped at a minimum to get a look at Delsey before she called it a day.
She thought of something she should have done before leaving the office and decided to risk drawing Hatteras into her off-the-books actions. She called her on her cell.
“Renée, you all right?”
“I’m fine. But I need you to do something for me.”
“Sure.”
“All right, go over to my terminal. I should still be signed in.”
“You got it.”
Ballard waited until Colleen said she was in place and that Ballard was still signed in to the department network. Ballard then walked her through accessing the DMV database and putting Delsey’s address into the search engine to see if the same address happened to be on anyone else’s driver’s license.
“Two names come up,” Hatteras said.
“One is Dean Delsey,” Ballard said. “Give me the other one.”
“Robert Delsey. Must be his brother. Or, wait, no, this may be his father. He’s older.”
“What’s his DOB?”
Hatteras gave a birth date in 1981, making Robert twice Dean’s age. It also doubled Ballard’s interest in the pair. Another father-and-son case, the second in two days. Ballard did not put much stock in so-called coincidences—Harry Bosch had taught her that—but she thought this one must be a genuine one.
She directed Hatteras to open a search on the department’s criminal records index. Hatteras reported that Robert Delsey had a criminal history much longer than Dean’s. It included a nine-year stretch in prison for assault with a deadly weapon. Nine years meant it was no bar fight or skirmish over surf territory. It told Ballard that he had probably come close to killing someone, and that meant he was a dangerous man.
She asked Hatteras to use her cell phone to take a photo of Robert Delsey off the computer screen and text it to her.
“What are you up to?” Hatteras asked.
“Just an old case I worked before I came to the unit,” Ballard said, ready with her answer. “Nothing you have to worry about. Send me that photo, and thank you, Colleen.” Ballard disconnected before another question could come.
The photo arrived on her text app and Ballard studied Robert Delsey. The genetic connection to Dean Delsey was evident. They were most likely father and son. Robert’s face and skin were worn by more years in the sun and salt. Ballard thought of her own father and the deeply tanned wrinkles etched into the corners of his black-brown eyes—he had eyes like his favorite actor, Charles Bronson.
Ballard sat for twenty minutes with a decision she had to make before finally picking up the phone and calling a name on her favorites list. Harry Bosch answered with his usual greeting.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. How about you?”
“No complaints.”
“Staying busy?”
“Not too much. Been bingeingThe Lincoln Lawyer,if you can believe it.”
“You still working with the real Lincoln Lawyer?”
