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“He’s a cop and he already knows we did that with Hastings. He’ll be too careful now. I mean, go look at his desk. It’s so clean it looks like nobody sits there. He probably came in here yesterday and cleaned it after he figured out what we were doing with Hastings.”
“Well, this is all hard for me to wrap my head around. Are you sure you’re looking at the right person?”
“We’re sure he’s a suspect, but that’s what we need the search warrant for. To gather evidence that either proves or disproves the suspicion.”
“We?”
“Harry Bosch is working this with me. He should be watching Rawls right now. So … what if …”
She didn’t finish because she was still thinking it out.
“What?” Masser said.
“That was Hastings I was just talking to,” Ballard said. “He confirmed that Rawls was a volunteer with the campaign back in ’05. He knocked on doors and handed out those pins.”
“Did Hastings say he knocked on Laura Wilson’s door or was even in her building? Anything that directly connects Rawls to Wilson?”
“No, nothing that close. He did join Jake Pearlman’s social circle almost immediately after his sister’s murder.”
Masser shook his head.
“These are pluses to the document,” he said. “But it’s not enough to get it by Canterbury. Do you have a go-to judge you could take it to? My go-to retired two years ago.”
Ballard thought for a moment before answering. She had a judge in mind, but it was complicated. Judge Charles Rowan was often more interested in Ballard as a woman than as a detective. Going to his house to get a search warrant signed would require a dance that she wasn’t keen on or proud of. Prior to Rowan, she’d had a female go-to with whom no dance was required. But Carolyn Wickwire had lost reelection when a popular ex-prosecutor ran against her, claiming she was weak on crime.
“I have a judge I could go to, I think,” Ballard finally said.
“Well, let’s add in what you got from Hastings and pad this a little bit,” Masser said. “And we’ll see what happens.”
34
TED RAWLS’S FLAGSHIP DGP store was on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica. Bosch cruised by slowly and saw a man inside the front room of the shop, using a key to open a mailbox. Bosch checked his rearview and then pulled to a stop to watch for a moment. He had already cruised by Ted Rawls’s home on nearby Harvard Street but there appeared to be no one home.
The DGP shop was on the ground level of a two-story structure called simply enough the Montana Shoppes & Suites. It was a block long with retail shops running side by side on floor one and small offices on the second level. Staircases at the east and west ends allowed for access to the walkway that ran the length of the building in front of the offices.
The DGP store was divided into two sections. Up front behind the plate glass window was the bank of private mailboxes accessible to customers 24/7 through a front door with a key card lock. Beyond the mailbox room was the shipping and packaging center with a counter and displays of cardboard boxes and shipping materials.
Bosch watched the man take a small package out of hismailbox, close it, and then leave. He then saw a man appear from the back of the business and take a seat behind the counter. It wasn’t Ted Rawls, but this didn’t mean Rawls was not there or in the office he kept directly above the store.
Bosch started cruising again and turned left on 16th Street. He then took another left into the alley that ran behind the shopping center. He cruised slowly, reading the names of the businesses stenciled on the rear doors. There were no cars in the alley and No Parking signs were spaced every fifty feet or so, as were dumpsters pushed up against the rear walls of the businesses. Bosch checked for security cameras but did not see any back here.
When he got to the door marked dgp, he slowed even more and looked up at the windows of the office on the second floor. They offered no clue as to whether Rawls was in. Venetian blinds had been pulled tightly closed behind the glass.
He picked up speed and continued to the end of the alley at 17th Street, then turned left and drove back out to Montana. He saw a streetside parking place opening up and quickly claimed it, swinging the Cherokee in behind a compact van. The spot gave him a solid view of the shops and the walkway to the offices on the second floor. He decided it was the best he could do for the moment. Rawls knew him. He couldn’t go into the DGP store or the office without possibly revealing himself to the suspect. He decided he would wait until he heard from Ballard about the search warrant and learned what the next move should be.
He put KKJZ on the radio and caught an Ed Reed cover of the old Shirley Horn song “Here’s to Life.” Reed sang it slowly, his voice carrying the experience of his years.
He had to turn the radio down when his phone buzzed and he saw it was Ballard.
“Harry, what’s happening?” she asked.
“I haven’t found Rawls yet,” Bosch said. “Looked like nobody was home at his house. No car, no sign of life. Now I’m watching the office on Montana. I haven’t seen him or his car. How about you? Sounds like you’re driving.”
“I’m heading to Brentwood.”
“What’s in Brentwood?”
“Charlie Rowan. I’ve got the search warrant app. Masser helped me write it.”
