The Night Fire (Harry Bosch #22) - Michael Connelly Page 0,29
left the room. He found Margaret sitting in the living room staring at the flames of a gas-powered fireplace.
“Margaret, thank you.”
“You didn’t find anything?”
“No, and there’s no other place in the house where he would have kept anything regarding the murder book, right? Anything in the garage?”
“I don’t think so. He kept tools in the garage and fishing poles. But you’re welcome to look.”
Bosch just nodded. He didn’t think there was anything here to find. Ballard might have been right: John Jack hadn’t taken the murder book to work it. There was something else.
“I don’t think I need to,” he said. “I’m going to go but I’ll circle back if anything comes up. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Margaret said. “I just get a little wistful and a little teary at night. I miss him.”
She was all alone. John Jack and Margaret had not had children. John Jack had once told Bosch he could not bring a child into the world he saw as a law officer.
“Of course,” Bosch said. “I understand. If you don’t mind, I’ll check in on you from time to time, see if you need anything.”
“That’s nice, Harry. In a way, you’re the closest we got to having a son. John Jack didn’t want us to have our own. Now I’m left alone.”
Bosch didn’t know what to say to that.
“Well, uh, if you need anything, you call me,” he mumbled. “Day or night. I’ll let myself out and lock the door.”
“Thank you, Harry.”
Back in his car, Bosch sat there and decompressed for a few minutes before calling Ballard to tell her that Thompson’s home office was a dead end.
“Nothing at all?”
“Not even a scratch pad. I think you’re right: he didn’t take the book to work it. He just didn’t want anyone else to work it.”
“But why?”
“That’s the question.”
“So, what are you doing tomorrow? Want to go with me out to Rialto?”
“I can’t. I have court in the morning. I might be able to go later. But what’s in Rialto? That’s a drive.”
“Elvin Kidd, the Rolling 60s street boss who told his dealers to clear the alley on the day Hilton got killed.”
“How’d you get that?”
“From the snitch Hunter and Talis didn’t get the chance to interview back in 1990.”
“Wait till I’m clear, then we go see him.”
There was a hesitation.
“You shouldn’t go out there without backup,” Bosch said.
“The guy’s like sixty and out of the game,” Ballard said. “Rialto’s two hours and a world away from South L.A. It’s where bangers go when they quit the streets.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll call you when I clear, then we go out. Maybe you should get some sleep until then.”
“Can’t. I’m going to check out the ballistics first thing tomorrow.”
“Then go home, wherever and whatever home is, and sleep.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“I told you about that.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll stop calling you ‘Dad’ and you stop telling me to ‘get some sleep.’”
“Okay, deal.”
“Have a nice night, Harry.”
“You too. Let me know about the ballistics tomorrow.”
“Will do.”
She disconnected. Bosch started the Jeep and headed home.
BALLARD
14
Ballard sat in on the third-watch roll call but there was no requirement for her skills at the start of her shift. No follow-ups, no interviews, no subpoena deliveries, not even a wellness check. Afterward, she went down to the empty detective bureau, picked a desk, and set up her radio, leaving it on the jazz station Bosch programmed. She settled in for some computer work, and started running deep background checks on Elvin Kidd and Nathan Brazil.
She learned that Kidd owned a home valued at $600,000 and ran a building business called Kidd Construction, specializing in commercial renovation projects. The contractor’s license was in the name of Cynthia Kidd. Ballard guessed this was his wife, whose name was used to get around the fact that he had a criminal record.
It looked to Ballard, at least on the surface of things, that at some point Kidd had broken away from gang life and had chosen the straight life. Kidd Construction was first licensed by the state in 2002, twelve years after the murder of John Hilton.
Ballard pulled up a photo of Kidd’s home on Google Maps and studied it for a few moments. It looked like the ideal picture of suburban life: gray with white trim, two-car garage. The only thing missing was a white picket fence out front. She noticed a pickup in the driveway with an equipment trailer hooked to it. The name of a business was painted on the side of the trailer,