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“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay, and we’ll finish our security survey. We won’t take long.”
Ballard and Bosch quickly moved through the house, checking doors and windows, finally ending up in the kitchen, where Sally Barnes sat at a table with a spread of eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white photos. She was signing them with a felt-tip pen. Ballard stepped over and recognized a much younger Sally Barnes in the photos. They were old publicity shots.
“I thought I recognized you,” she said. “Were you in the movies?”
“Television,” Barnes said. “I was onPolice Womanin a recurring role. I didBaretta, Rockford Files, Barnaby Jones, McMillan & Wife,all of them.”
“Police Woman—that’s where I recognized you from. I went back and watched that whole series recently. Angie Dickinson kicked butt.”
“In more ways than one. I played a prostitute and I was her snitch. I got killed by my pimp when Angie thought I was getting too much fan mail. Written out.”
“Wow, that wasn’t fair.”
“Hollywood was never meant to be fair. Bruce wrote for TV, and when we got married, I retired. I became like that joke about the blonde who married the writer. But Bruce did well in TV and took good care of us. He bought this place with his residuals. We raised two sons here.”
Ballard nodded and gestured toward the photos on the table. “Well, people obviously remember you.”
“They do. And I thank them for it. I only charge for postage and handling.”
“Those neighbors who said Emmitt Thawyer was strange—are any of them still around?”
“No, they all died or moved away.”
Ballard nodded again and Maddie joined them in the kitchen. She shook her head, telling Ballard that she had noticed nothing of import. Ballard looked back at Sally.
“Well, Mrs. Barnes, your house is pretty solid,” Ballard said. “You’ve done a good job of keeping it secure. All right if we check your garage? Then we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Go ahead,” Sally said. “I don’t keep a car anymore. My eyes are bad.”
“Is there an automatic opener?” Maddie asked.
“There’s a button by the back door,” Sally said.
Ballard and Maddie found the button by the door and pressed it. They went out and crossed a small sunburned lawn as the double-wide garage door creaked open. The space was mostly bare. No car, no workbench. Just cardboard boxes markedCHRISTMASstacked in the middle of one of the bays.
Ballard scanned the concrete floor but saw no drain. She went over to the boxes and shoved the stack aside to see if they were covering one; they weren’t.
“Damn,” Ballard said. “And this was looking so good too.”
“Well, maybe he had an office or a lab somewhere,” Maddie suggested.
“With a concrete floor and an iron-grated drain? I doubt it.”
“Well, shit.”
“Yeah. Go back in and tell the old lady thanks. Remind her to keep her doors locked. I’ll meet you on the street.”
“Okay.”
They split up; Maddie went to the back door while Ballardwalked down the driveway toward the street. She pulled her phone to check for messages. There were none. As she put the phone away she noticed the three trash cans lined up between the house and the driveway. Behind them she saw a casement window. Her first thought was that a flash from there could have been seen by the neighbors next door.
Ballard turned and trotted around the corner to the back of the house. The door was already locked but she saw Maddie in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Barnes. She knocked rapidly on the glass. Maddie opened the door.
“There’s a basement,” Ballard said. “Mrs. Barnes, where are the stairs to the basement?”
Sally looked up from her autographing.
