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“Never mind. I’ll tell you later. I’m going to check out the van.”
Ballard cut in front of the RV and started walking down the other side of the string of vehicles. This put her only a few feet from traffic and in the blinding glare of the headlights of cars whizzing by.
She got to the white van and saw that it was completely dark inside. She went to the driver’s door and tried the handle.
“It’s unlocked,” she said. “I’m going in. You got me?”
“I see you,” Bosch said. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“He can’t see me from there and we need to know what he’s up to.”
“Still don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Come on, Harry. You know you’d be in here if it were you.”
Ballard climbed into the driver’s seat and cautiously looked through the windshield in the direction of the circle. From this angle, she could see only one of the seated people, a woman in a folding chair with a built-in cupholder for her beer.
Ballard took a quick look through the glove box and storage areas in the front. She did not find her badge, but in a cupholder there was a key ring with two keys and a chip fob on it. It saidYOU-STORE-ITon the fob and provided an address on Lincoln Boulevard in Santa Monica. The numbers 22 and 23 were stamped on the keys.
Ballard split the curtains behind the front seats and ducked into the back. The rear windows were blacked out and the interior was pitch-dark. Ballard’s face immediately came into contact with something wet and spongy.
“Shit.”
She struggled to get the light on her phone on.
“What is it?” Bosch said. “What’s wrong?”
She turned her light on. There was a damp beach towel hangingfrom a makeshift clothesline strung diagonally from the back corner of the van across its interior. The wet weight of the gray-and-white-striped towel made the line droop in the middle.
“Renée, what’s wrong?” Bosch repeated, his voice rising.
“Nothing,” Ballard said. “I walked into a wet towel on, like, a clothesline. It’s gross. But I’m in the back and I’ve got my phone light on. Let me know if you see it through the curtains.”
She did a quick sweep with the light across the rear of the van. “Anything?” she asked.
“Not really,” Bosch said. “But I’m a lot farther away than the people in the fire circle.”
“I’ll be quick.”
“What do you see?”
She swept the light across the space slowly.
“Queen-size mattress at the back,” she said. “Looks like it’s on top of a built-in box. A large plywood box for storage. The bed’s not made. There are clothes and other shit hanging in nets on the side walls.”
She moved toward the back. There was a sheet hanging off the unmade mattress and over the edge of the wooden box. Ballard swiped the sheet away to see if there was a latch or handle for opening the box.
There was a padlock.
“Shit,” she said.
“What?” Bosch responded, panic in his voice.
“The bed sits on this built-in storage unit. But it’s got a lock on it.”
“Did you bring picks with you?”
“No, but it’s a combo.”
