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“No,” Ballard said. “We shouldn’t.”
“You take twenty-two and I’ll take twenty-three. Be quick.”
“Got it.”
They both disappeared into their respective units. Unit 22 was the size of a modest walk-in closet or a prison cell. It was stacked on both sides with cardboard boxes, each helpfully marked with a list of its contents. Ballard moved down the stacks, looking for a box that could be of importance to the investigation and also be a test of the reliability of the listed contents.
She came across one at the top of a four-box stack that was markedTaxes 2012–2022. She pulled the box down to the floor. It was heavy. When she took off the top, she saw that it was filled end to end with files with different years marked on the tabs. She took out the last file, marked2022,opened it, and found a photocopy of an IRS tax return.
“I’ve got tax records here,” Ballard called out.
“What’s the name?” Bosch called back.
“Thomas Dehaven.”
“I’ve got that name on a couple of things over here. He must be the badge buyer.”
“Get this. I’m looking at an IRS return for last year. If this is our badge buyer, then the sovereign plate and all of that is bullshit. He’s a poseur.”
“What’s the address?”
“Uh, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.”
“Take a photo and let’s keep going. We can’t stay here all night.”
“Got it. Luck is fluid.”
“That’s right.”
Ballard used her phone to take a photo of the tax return. Shereplaced the file and put the top back on the box. Standing up, she counted the boxes in the small room. There were sixteen along one side and another thirteen on the opposite wall. The majority were markedBooksfollowed by a classification of fiction or nonfiction. She went through all of these first, opening them to find in each a row of books spine out. Thomas Dehaven favored contemporary mystery and horror. Ballard saw the names of several authors she recognized, including some she had even read: Child, Coben, Carson, Burke, Crumley, Grafton, Koryta, Goldberg, Wambaugh, and many others.
“Guy doesn’t read Chandler,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Bosch said.
“There’s a book collection over here, mostly mystery and true crime. But no Chandler.”
“His loss.”
“What do you have over there?”
“A lot of junk. Clothes, ski equipment, fishing poles, and—”
His report was cut short by the sound of the automated doors at the front of the facility opening and closing. Someone had entered.
Ballard stepped out of unit 22 and into the aisle. Bosch was already there. They stood listening and heard muffled voices. More than one person was inside. Bosch held his hand out as if to stop Ballard from speaking even though she knew to be quiet.
There was a metallic bang and then the harsh sound of a metal door being rolled up. Whoever had come in had gone down one of the other aisles to a storage unit.
“Luck is fluid,” Ballard whispered.
“How much more time do you need?” Bosch whispered.
“I have four boxes left.”
“I have about the same. Let’s get it done.”
“Quietly.”
