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The Counter-Terrorism and Special Operations Bureau handled all organized threats to public safety. The sheriff’s department had jurisdiction over Malibu and the pier.
“I’m good with that,” Bosch said.
“So what’s our next move?” Ballard asked.
He pointed across the street at the caravan. “We try to find out who these people are,” he said. “And why they needed a badge.”
Ballard nodded.
“I know a place we might want to start,” she said. “There was a key ring in the van with keys to a You-Store-It in Santa Monica. I think our badge buyer has a couple storage lockers there. There were numbers on the keys.”
“Sounds like a lead,” Bosch said. “Let’s go check it out.”
18
THE YOU-STORE-IT WASon Lincoln a block from the eastbound entrance to the 10 freeway in Santa Monica. The office was long closed for the night by the time Ballard and Bosch arrived, but the facility offered those who rented storage space twenty-four-hour access. All that was needed to enter through its glass doors was the fob that came with every rental unit. But there was a pickup truck parked near the entrance and a man was standing at its open tailgate unloading five-gallon buckets of paint onto a dolly. It gave Bosch an idea.
“What tools do you have?” he asked.
“You mean here in the car?” Ballard asked.
“Yes, what tools?”
“Uh, none, really.”
“You don’t have a jack?”
“Yes, there’s a jack. I thought you meant like a toolbox.”
“Get me the crowbar from the jack and I’ll need that hat and hoodie.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to follow that painter in, so let’s hurry.”
They both got out and went to the back of the Defender. Thespare tire and tire-changing tools were underneath the flooring of the rear compartment. Ballard had to take out her crime scene kit and the plastic tub containing surfing equipment to access it. In the meantime, Bosch put the disguise box on the ground and started looking through its contents.
“I don’t know what your plan is but there are going to be cameras in there,” Ballard said.
“I know,” Bosch said. “That’s why I need your hat and hoodie.”
She lifted the flooring and grabbed a rolled leather satchel containing tire-changing tools.
“Let me see it,” he said.
Ballard slid the tire iron out of the satchel and handed it to him. It was eighteen inches long with a bend near one end. That end had a socket that would fit the lug nuts of the car’s wheels, and the other end tapered to a flat edge that could be used as a wedge for popping off wheel covers.
“Perfect,” Bosch said. “Give me the hat and hoodie.”
He put the tire iron into the disguise box and accepted the Dodgers hat from Ballard. He put it on and pulled the brim down low over his forehead. He glanced over at the pickup, and Ballard followed his eyes. The man was closing the tailgate. The dolly was fully loaded with buckets of paint ready to go into storage until the next job.
“Hurry, put the hoodie in the box,” Bosch said.
Ballard pulled it off and threw it into the box.
“Okay, what were the numbers on the keys you saw?” Bosch asked.
“Twenty-two and twenty-three,” Ballard said. “What are you—”
