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Many retired LAPD officers moved as far away from the place they had worked as was possible and affordable. Idaho was a favored spot, called Blue Heaven by many for its low crime, clean air, conservative politics, and don’t-tread-on-me attitude. One reason Ballard liked Bosch was his decision to stay in the city he had dedicated so many years to.
“I’ve left two messages,” she said. “I think he’s one of those guys who’s not going to call. If he couldn’t solve it, nobody can. I hate that shit.”
It wasn’t the first time she had encountered the issue when working cold cases, and she couldn’t understand it—putting a detective’s pride in front of justice for a victim and a family who had lost something precious. She also believed it had something to do with gender. Some of these old bulls didn’t like the idea of a female detective taking up their failed investigation and solving the case. She had to admit to herself that it was partially for this reason that she was not vigorously pursuing Dubose.
“What’s the Idaho guy’s name?” Bosch asked. “Maybe I knew him back in the day.”
“Dale Dubose,” Ballard said.
“I don’t remember him. But let me give it a try. I’ll ask around, see if anybody knows him and can get a call through that will be answered.”
“Thanks. Not sure what it will get us, but you never know. Sometimes these old guys take stuff with them after they retire. They shouldn’t, but they do.”
“Funny. So was Dubose at Hollywood or RHD? I don’t remember that name at all.”
“No, the case was flipped to Northeast. Apparently Hollywood had caught two homicides earlier in the day and had everybody going full field on them. The detective lieutenant threw it over the fence to Northeast.”
Hollywood and Northeast Divisions were contiguous. It was not unusual for cases to be moved one way or the other, depending on caseloads and personnel availability.
“All right, well, I’ll see if I can get to Dubose,” Boschsaid. “I want to ask why they did nothing with the blood in the urine.”
“I kind of give them a pass on that,” Ballard said. “There was only so much they could draw from the serology back then. Even if they had a list of everybody in L.A. with kidney and bladder disease, what do you do with that? It would be thousands.”
“They could have at least looked for criminal records, sex offenders, narrowed it down from thousands.”
“True. But remember, they were working out of Northeast, not Homicide Special downtown. They were second tier.”
“Doesn’t matter. I was second tier, and everybody counts. You know what this is? She was Black and they didn’t run the lead out. This guy up in Blue Heaven, shoot me his number. I’m going to call him.”
“And say what? You’ll get his voice mail.”
“I’m going to say, if he doesn’t call me back, I’m going to come up there to see him. And he won’t like that.”
“Okay, Harry. Thanks. I’ll send you the number after this interview.”
Ballard merged onto the 101 and skirted the northern slope of the Santa Monica Mountains before exiting in Studio City. She headed to the address she had gotten from Adam Beecher’s driver’s license, a house on Vineland in the foothills.
She suddenly realized something.
“Damn. I’m sorry, Harry,” Ballard said. “I just realized we should have driven separately. We’re practically in your neighborhood, and now you’ll have to go all the way back to Ahmanson to get your car.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Bosch said. “You got to fill me in on the case.”
“And get you pissed off about Dubose. I’ll tell you what. After the interview, I can drop you off at home and then I’ll come get you on the way in tomorrow.”
“Well … let’s decide that when we’re done. I have to think about whether I need my car tonight.”
“Okay. Hot date?”
“Uh, no. But speaking of hot dates, I was going to ask you: How are you and the fireman doing?”
“He’s a paramedic, actually, and he’s gone.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. I hope it was your call.”
“It was.”
“Too many hours apart?”
