The Night Fire (Harry Bosch #22) - Michael Connelly Page 0,31

it seemed like a steep fall from LAPD homicide detective.

“Well, I hope you stay safe,” she said. “Can I ask you about the Hilton case?”

“You can ask,” Talis said. “But I’m not sure I’m going to remember anything.”

“Let’s see. My first question is about the murder book. The summary report with the victim’s parents has a couple lines blacked out. I’m wondering why that happened and what was blacked out.”

“You mean like on the page, somebody blacked it out?”

“That’s right. It wasn’t you or Hunter?”

“No, why would we do that? You mean redacted like the feds did with the Russia thing?”

“Yes, redacted. It’s only two lines but it stood out, you know? I’d never seen that before. I could read you the page or maybe fax it to you. Maybe it would help you—”

“No, that won’t help. If I can’t remember, I can’t remember.”

Ballard detected a tonal change in Talis’s voice. She thought maybe he had just recalled something about the case and he was shutting down.

“Let me pull the book and read it to you,” she said.

“No, honey, I just told you,” Talis said. “I don’t remember the case and I’m kind of busy here.”

“Okay, let me ask you this. Do you remember John Jack Thompson?”

“Sure. Everybody knew John Jack. What’s he got—”

“Did you ever discuss this case with him?”

“Why would we do that?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. He ended up with the murder book on this. When he retired he took it home with him—he stole it—and I’m trying to figure out why.”

“You gotta ask him about that, then.”

“I can’t. He died last week and his wife turned in the murder book. Now I have it and I’m trying to figure out why he took it.”

“I’m sorry to hear John Jack is gone, but I can’t help you. I have no idea why he had the book. Maybe he talked to my partner about it, but he never talked to me.”

Ballard instinctively knew that Talis was dissembling. He knew something but wasn’t sharing it. She took one last try at digging it out.

“Detective Talis, are you sure you can’t help me?” she asked. “It sounds to me like you do remember this case. Are you protecting somebody or some secret? You don’t need—”

“Hold it right there, girl,” Talis said, his voice angry. “You’re saying I’m protecting somebody, keeping secrets? Then this is where I say fuck you. Nobody talks to me like that. I gave the department and that city—”

“Detective, I am not trying to insult you.”

“—twenty-five years of my life and I was putting people in jail when you were giving boys blow jobs under the bleachers. You insult me and you insult everything I ever did down there. Goodbye, Detective Ballard.”

Talis disconnected.

Ballard sat there, her face turning red with anger and embarrassment.

“Then fuck you,” she said to the empty room.

She was saved from the moment when she heard her name come from the ceiling speaker. It was Lieutenant Washington requesting her presence in the watch office.

She got up to go.

15

Some calls come with a deep feeling of dread that hits long before any crime scene is viewed or question asked. This was one of those. Lieutenant Washington had sent Ballard out to a house in lower Beachwood Canyon, where a suicide had been reported. Patrol wanted a detective to confirm and sign off on it. The L-T told Ballard that it was a kid.

The house was a block north of Franklin on Van Ness. It was an old Craftsman that looked like its wood siding was being chewed up from the inside out by termites. There were two patrol cars out front and a white van with a blue stripe down the side that belonged to the coroner’s office. Ballard pulled behind it and got out.

Two officers were waiting on the front porch. Ballard had seen them earlier at roll call and knew their names were Willard and Hoskins. They had long-distance looks in their eyes and had been horrified by whatever the scene was inside.

“What have we got?” Ballard asked.

“Eleven-year-old girl hung herself in the bedroom,” Willard said. “It’s a bad scene.”

“Her mother found her when she came home from work around eleven,” Hoskins added.

“Anybody else in the house?” Ballard asked. “Where’s the father?”

“Not here,” Hoskins said. “We don’t know his story.”

Ballard walked past them and opened the front door. Immediately she heard a woman crying. She stepped in and to her right saw a female officer named Robards on a couch next