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“Richardson,” Purcell said. “Robin Richardson.”
“Do you have a phone number or an email for her?”
“Vivian has that. I can get it.”
“One last thing. What was the daughter’s name?”
“Mallory. She was a great kid. One mistake changed all of that. Like I said, it was sad. Very sad.”
Ballard nodded and realized she had one last question. “What school did she go to when she lived on Arroyo?”
“That would have been St. Vincent’s in South Pasadena. That was their church too. We also sent Nick to St. Vincent’s for a few years.”
“Thank you, Judge. If you can get us Robin Richardson’s contact info, we’ll let you get back to work.”
Purcell looked at her with worried eyes.
“Keep Nick out of this. He’s a good kid. If he knew who… where he came from, he wouldn’t take it well.”
“We understand, sir,” Ballard said. “We’ll do our best.”
SATURDAY, 7:22 A.M.
28
BALLARD SAT INthe second row of folding chairs, behind Gordon Olmstead and another agent, Spencer, who was wearing an Amazon delivery uniform as cover because he was the driver of the command-post van. The van was parked on Ocean Boulevard, a block away from the parking lot displayed on the four screens attached to the inside wall.
Olmstead sat in front of a stick microphone and was in constant contact with all agents involved in the operation. Speakers mounted below the screens allowed Ballard to hear the play-by-play on the comms. The only one of the team not transmitting was Bosch. He had previously declined to wear an earpiece. His car was wired for sound but he didn’t want to speak; if he was being watched by a Dehaven confederate, it might tip him off.
At 7:25 the agents watching the caravan on the PCH where Dehaven parked his van overnight reported that Dehaven and another man were in the van and pulling into traffic. They were on their way.
Olmstead shook his head and keyed his mic. “They’re already breaking the rules,” he said. “Subject was to arrive solo. Everybody stay sharp. We are off script.”
Tension in the van ratcheted up a notch. Ballard watched the screens and saw Bosch open the door of his Cherokee.
“He’s getting out,” Ballard said. “Why’s he getting out?”
“It’s part of the plan, Renée,” Olmstead said. “Cool your jets.”
Ballard was annoyed by his tone and by the fact that she had been left out of the planning, but she knew this wasn’t the time to go to war over it. She watched as Bosch went to the back of the Cherokee and lifted the rear hatch. He was wearing an old army camo jacket that looked bulky.
“Is he wearing plates?” she asked.
“No,” Spencer said. “He refused a vest, plates, anything that would look like he might be law enforcement.”
Bosch sat on the back bumper and folded his arms across his chest. Next to him in the rear cargo space of the Cherokee were two beach bags with straps. They looked like they were filled with striped beach towels, but Olmstead explained that the towels concealed the mini machine guns, two in each bag, with ineffective firing pins.
“We wanted two bags so Dehaven would have to carry them with two hands,” he said.
Ballard nodded, knowing that the two-handed carry would hinder an effort to draw a weapon.
Minute-by-minute updates on Dehaven’s progress on the coast highway were radioed to the command post.
“He’s going to be early, people,” Olmstead said. “Be ready.”
“Is there any way to get that message to Bosch?” Ballard asked.
“Not unless we break position,” Olmstead said. “We don’t want to do that and Bosch knows to be ready for anything. Early arrival, late arrival—doesn’t matter.”
