BALLARD AND BOSCH 13 страница

“You’ve been in there before? What’s the setup?”

“One time. I read somewhere they had the best fried chicken in the city. And peach cobbler. So, I went to see. It’s like a counter—you go down the line, order what you want, then take it on a tray and find a place to sit. They have an overflow room that will probably be in use at one today, end of the lunch hour.”

“We need a signal. In case you need me. We’ve got no radios.”

“I brought my rover in case we want to hook Dupree up after.”

She handed the radio across to Bosch.

“You keep it in case something goes really sideways and you need to call it in. You remember the codes?”

“Of course. Code three—officer needs help. But what if things don’t go sideways? What are we doing?”

“Well, I’m going in by myself. Most people by themselves look at their cell phones. I’ll text you a running play-by-play and a code three if I need you to call in the troops.”

Bosch thought about things before speaking next.

“Once you’re in there and have your phone out, text me a hello so I know we have a clear signal,” he said. “But my question is what are you hoping to accomplish in there? You think you’re going to overhear their conversation, just get a look at Kidd, what?”

“Yeah, I want to get a look at him,” Ballard said. “And if I’m lucky and I’m close, I may hear something. I’ll put my phone on Record but I know that’s a long shot. I want to see if he’s panicked, and if he is then maybe we take it to the next step and really spook him to see what he does. We can also squeeze Dupree.”

“When?”

“Maybe right after lunch. You’re dressed up like a detective and I’m undercover. Maybe we call South Bureau, get a couple unies to pull him over, and then we take him back to South Bureau and borrow a room.”

“How close are the tables in there?”

“Not that close. They wouldn’t have picked the place if they knew people were sitting on top of each other.”

Bosch nodded.

“Okay, let’s see what happens,” he said. “Don’t forget to text me so I know we have a signal.”

“It’s just a first step,” Ballard said. “I want to see who we’re dealing with here.”

“Okay, be safe.”

“You too.”

Ballard drove off. She checked the dashboard clock and saw it was 12:45. She made a U-turn on Crenshaw and headed back toward the restaurant. It was busy and there was no parking directly in front of the establishment. She parked at the curb half a block away and texted Bosch before getting out of the van.

Going in.

She got out, slinging her backpack strap over her shoulder, and walked to the restaurant. Her gun and handcuffs were in the pack.

She entered Dulan’s at exactly one p.m. and was immediately hit with the smell of good food. It suddenly occurred to her that to complete her undercover picture she was going to have to eat. She looked around. Every table in the front room of the restaurant was taken and there was a line of people waiting to go down the hot line and get their food. Acting like she was looking for a friend, she checked out the overflow room to the right. There were empty tables here. She stopped short when she saw a man sitting by himself at a four-top. He was texting on his phone. She was sure it was Marcel Dupree. The round head but now with braids instead of unkempt. He had no food or drink in front of him. He was totally dressed in Crips blue, right down to the flat-billed Dodgers cap. It looked like he was waiting for Elvin Kidd before ordering.

The room was long, with a row of four-top tables running down the right side and deuces running down the left. The table across the aisle from Dupree’s four-top was already taken by a couple. The next deuce down was taken as well, but the third was open. Ballard realized that by sitting there she could have a full view of whoever sat across the table from Dupree.

She walked down the aisle, passing Dupree, and to the open table. Hanging her backpack over the back of the chair, she dropped her van keys on the table and turned to the four-top across the aisle, where three young women sat.

“Excuse me, do you mind watching my stuff while I go get food?” she asked. “I won’t be long. The line isn’t bad.”

“Sure, no problem,” one of the women said. “Take your time.”

“I’ll be quick.”

“No worries.”

She went back into the main dining room and got in line. While she waited she kept her eyes on the door to see if Kidd would enter. She looked away for just a moment, to text Bosch that only Dupree was in the building. Bosch responded, saying he had left the gas station and had moved closer to the restaurant. He asked if she was close to Dupree, and Ballard responded.

I got a table close enough to watch.

Bosch’s return came immediately.

Just be careful.

Ballard didn’t respond. It was her turn to order. She asked for fried chicken, collard greens, and peach cobbler. She wanted enough food to keep her at the table for as long as Dupree and Kidd were at theirs. After paying, she took her tray to the next room and saw that Dupree was now facing another black man at his table. The shaved scalp told her it was likely Kidd. She had not seen him enter the restaurant and guessed there might be a rear entrance. She carried her food tray past them and to her table, where she sat at a diagonal to the man meeting Dupree.

Ballard stole a casual glance and confirmed that it was Kidd. She took her phone out and held it at an angle so it would appear she was looking at something on the screen or taking a selfie, and started taking a video of Dupree and Kidd.

After a few seconds she stopped the video and texted it to Bosch. His response came quick.

No CLOSER!

And she sent him one back.

Roger that!

She started the video again but didn’t hold the phone consistently in one spot or it could be a giveaway. She ate her food and continued to act like she was reading e-mails, at times placing the phone flat on the table, at other times holding it up as if to look closely at something on the screen. The whole time she was recording.

Because of the distance between the two tables, Ballard could make out very little of what was said by Kidd and nothing of what was said by Dupree. The men were speaking in low tones, and only now and then could a word or two be heard from Kidd. It was clear by his demeanor, however, that Kidd was agitated if not angry about something. At one point he poked a finger down hard on the table and Ballard clearly heard him say, “I am not fucking around.”

He said it in a controlled and angry tone that carried through the sounds of dining, conversation, and overhead music in the room.

At that point Ballard had propped her phone against a sugar caddy on the table. The phone was tilted so it would look like she was reading or watching something, but it provided a low-angle recording of Kidd. She just hoped it picked up the audio.

Kidd lowered his voice again and continued speaking to Dupree. Then, seemingly in mid-sentence, Kidd got up from the table and started walking toward Ballard.

She quickly realized that if he saw the screen of her phone, he would know she was recording his meeting with Dupree. She grabbed the phone and cleared the screen just as Kidd got to her table.

He walked by her.

She waited, wanting to turn to see where he was going, but not willing to risk it.

Then she saw Dupree rise and head up the aisle to the main room and the front door of the restaurant. She saw him stuff an envelope in the side pocket of his sweatpants as he walked.

Ballard let a long five seconds go by before she turned to look behind her. Kidd was nowhere to be seen. There was a rear hallway with a restroom sign. She quickly texted Bosch.

Elvin has left the building. Dupree coming out front.

Blue sweats, dodgers cap, stay with him.

Ballard got up and went in the direction Kidd had gone. There were three doors at the end of the rear hallway: two restrooms and a rear exit. She pushed the third door open a few inches and saw nothing. She went wider and saw a white pickup truck with the KIDD CONSTRUCTION sign on the door going down the alley. She turned around and hurried back to the front of the restaurant, calling Bosch as she went.

“Elvin has left the building—really?” he said.

“I thought it was cute,” Ballard said. “Where’s Dupree?”

“He’s sitting in a car on the street, making a call. Where’s Kidd?”

“I think he’s heading back to Rialto.”

“Did you get anything?”

“I’m not sure. I got close but they were whispering. I’ll tell you one thing, though, Kidd was angry. I could tell.”

Ballard slowed her pace so that when she stepped out of the restaurant, she would look nonchalant.

“What’s our move?” Bosch asked.

“Stay on Dupree,” Ballard said. “I want to get to my van and see what I got on my phone.”

“Roger that.”

“I think Kidd gave Dupree something. I want to see if I got it.”

“You were videoing?”

“Trying to. Let me check and I’ll hit you back.”

She disconnected and ten seconds later was at her van.

She sat and watched the video she had taken. The playback was jumpy but she had Kidd on the screen and Dupree in side profile at times. Even with the volume on Max she could not make out what was said until Kidd’s outburst—“I am not fucking around”—came through loud and clear.

She then watched as Kidd got up from the table and started walking toward the camera. His body partially obscured the angle, and the frame jostled as Ballard grabbed the phone to kill the camera. A split second before the recording ended, Kidd cleared enough of the frame to reveal the table he had just left. A white envelope was lying on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth at the spot he had vacated. It looked like a folded napkin for a place setting.

The video ended but Ballard knew that Dupree had then picked the envelope up.

She called Bosch back.

“I think Kidd gave Dupree some money. He left an envelope on the table and Dupree took it.”

“Money for what?”

“Let’s ask him.”

Ballard called the detective commander at South Bureau, explained who she was, and asked whether there was a free interview room she could borrow to talk to a local. The lieutenant said that all interview rooms were free at the moment and she was welcome to take her pick. She called Bosch back and said they were all set.

“Only one problem,” Bosch said.

“What’s that?” Ballard asked.

“I’m not a cop. They’re not going to let me waltz in there with you and a custody.”

“Come on, Harry—if anybody says cop, it’s you. But can you leave your cane in the car?”

“I didn’t even bring it.”

“Good, then we’re in business. Where are you? I want my rover so I can call in a traffic stop on Dupree.”

“I see your van. I’ll meet you there.”

“Dupree’s still not moving?”

“Still on the phone. And I can see it’s a flip.”

“A burner. Perfect. I wonder what he’s up to.”

“We should have someone on the wire.”

“But we don’t, and besides, I doubt he’s talking to Kidd. He just left him. They already talked.”

“Roger that.”

Ballard waited, and soon enough Bosch pulled up beside her and handed her the rover through the window. She called for a patrol unit to meet her at the corner where Dupree was still parked.

It was twenty minutes before a patrol unit shook loose of another call and arrived. All the while Dupree remained in his car, working his phone. Ballard flagged down the patrol car, badge in hand, and leaned down to look in at the two officers inside.

“Hey. Ballard, Hollywood Division.”

The patrol car’s driver did the talking. He wore short sleeves but had three hash marks tattooed on his left forearm. A veteran street copper who was serious about it. The other uni was a black woman who didn’t look old enough to have more than a few years on the job.

“You guys know Marcel Dupree, Rolling 60s?”

Both shook their heads.

“Okay, well, that’s him parked up the block in the black Chrysler 300 with the low profile. You see what I’m talking about?”

The driver’s name tag said DEVLIN. Ballard could guess what nicknames he had garnered over the years.

“Got it,” he said.

“Okay, he’s wanted on a child support warrant,” Ballard said. “That’s our in. Arrest him, take him to South Bureau, and put him in a room. I’ll take it from there.”

“Weapons?”

“I don’t know. I just saw him outside the car and he didn’t look like he was carrying. But he has a weapons record and he might have a piece in the car. I’m actually hoping so. Then we’d have something to really work with. He’s also got a burner he’s talking on right now. I want that.”

“You got it. Now?”

“Go get him. Be careful. Oh, and one other thing: when you pull him out, don’t let him close the car door.”

“Roger that.”

Ballard stepped back and the patrol car took off. She quickly went to her van, where Bosch was waiting. They got in and she pulled into traffic. She made a U-turn that brought a chorus of angry honks. She hit the flashers and sped down the street until she pulled in behind the patrol car. It had parked off the rear side of Dupree’s Chrysler at an angle that would make it difficult for him to flee in his car without hitting either the patrol car or the vehicle parked in front of him.

Devlin was standing at the driver’s door, speaking to Dupree through the open window. His partner was on the other side of the car in a ready stance, her hand on her holstered weapon.

Ballard and Bosch stayed in the van and watched, ready if needed.

“You carrying, Harry?” Ballard asked.

“Nope,” Bosch said.

“If you need it, I’ve got a backup under the dash behind the glove box. You just have to reach up under there.”

“Nice. Roger that.”

But Devlin persuaded Dupree to step out of the car and put his hands on the roof. His partner came around the car and stood by the rear passenger door as Devlin moved in and cuffed Dupree, taking one hand off the roof at a time. He then searched his pockets, putting the burner phone, a wallet, and a white envelope on the roof as he found them.

Several people honked their horns as they drove by the scene, apparently protesting another arrest of a black man by a white officer.

Dupree himself did not seem to protest anything. As far as Ballard could tell, he had said nothing since stepping out of the car. She watched as he was walked to the rear door of the patrol car and placed in the back seat.

With the suspect secured, Ballard and Bosch emerged from the van and approached the Chrysler, the driver’s door still open.

“If he has a gun in there, it will be within reach of the driver’s seat,” Bosch said. “But you should search, not me.”

“I will,” Ballard said.

But first she went over to Devlin and his partner.

“Take him to South and put him in a room at the D-bureau,” she said. “I talked to Lieutenant Randizi and he cleared it. We’ll check the car and lock it up, then we’ll get over there.”

“Roger that,” Devlin said. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Thanks for the help.”

The two unies got in their car and took off with Dupree. Ballard went to the Chrysler, snapping on gloves as she approached.

“You worried about a warrant?” Bosch asked.

“No,” Ballard said. “Driver left his door open and has a past record of gun violence. If there is a weapon in here, we have a public safety issue. I think that qualifies as a ‘search incidental to a lawful arrest.’”

She was quoting from a legal opinion that allowed vehicle searches if public safety was an issue.

Ballard leaned into the driver’s seat through the open door. The first thing she checked was the center-console storage compartment, but there was no weapon. She leaned farther in and checked the glove box. Nothing.

She lowered herself and reached under the driver’s seat. There was nothing on the floor. She reached up blindly into the springs and electronic controls of the seat and her hand found an object that felt like the grip of a handgun.

“Got something,” she announced to Bosch.

She pulled hard and could feel tape coming free. She brought a small handgun out from beneath the seat, black tape still attached to it.

“Now we’re talking,” she said.

She put the gun on the roof of the car with the other property found on Dupree’s person. She picked up the phone and thumbed it open. On the screen she saw that Dupree had missed a call from a 213 number that looked vaguely familiar to her. It had come in just a few minutes before, while Dupree was being arrested. She took out her own phone and called the number. It connected right away to a recording that said it was a Los Angeles County number that did not accept incoming calls.

“What is it?” Bosch asked.

He had come up next to her.

“Dupree just missed a call from a county line that doesn’t accept incoming calls,” Ballard said. “Only calls going out.”

“Men’s Central,” Bosch said. “Somebody was calling him from jail.”

Ballard nodded. It sounded right. The phone didn’t appear to be password protected. Ballard wanted to know whom Dupree had been talking to before his arrest, but she did not want to risk the case by looking through the phone’s previous-call list without a warrant.

“What’s in the envelope?” Bosch asked.

Ballard closed the phone and put it back on the car’s roof. She then took up the envelope. It was not sealed. She opened it and thumbed through the stack of currency inside.

“Thirty one-hundred-dollar bills,” she said. “Kidd was paying Dupree—”

“To hit someone,” Bosch said. “You need to call Men’s Central and get Dennard Dorsey in protective custody as soon as possible. Call right now.”

Ballard tossed the envelope back on the roof of the car and pulled her phone again. She called the Men’s Central number she had stored on her phone for when she wanted to set up an inmate interview. It was the only number she had.

She got lucky. Deputy Valens answered the call.

“Valens, this is Ballard. I was in there a couple days ago to talk to a guy in the Crips module named Dennard Dorsey. You remember?”

“Uh, yeah, I remember. We don’t get many looking like you in here.”

Ballard ignored the comment. This was an emergency.

“Listen to me,” she said. “That conversation sparked something and you need to grab Dorsey and put him in protective custody. Nobody can get near him. You got that?”

“Well, yes, but I need an order from command for that. I can’t just—”

“Valens, you’re not listening. This is about to go down now. A hit was put on Dorsey and it could happen any minute. I don’t care what you need to do, just get him out of that module or he’s going to get whacked.”

“Okay, okay, let me see what I can do. Maybe I’ll move him into the visiting room and tell him you’re coming back. Meantime, I’ll work on a transfer.”

“Good. Do it. I’ll call you back when I know more.”

Ballard disconnected and looked at Bosch.

“They’re going to secure him, one way or another,” she said. “I’ll call back in a bit to make sure.”

“Good,” Bosch said. “Now let’s see what Dupree has to say about it.”

Ballard and Bosch let Dupree marinate in an interview room at South Bureau while they drank coffee and schemed out how Ballard would handle the interview. They had agreed that it had to be her. Bosch had no police powers. If the interview became part of a court case, it could collapse things if revealed that Dupree was interviewed by someone other than an active-duty law enforcement officer.

They agreed that Ballard would sit across from Dupree with her cell phone on her thigh so she could look down and see any messages from Bosch, who would watch the interview in real time from the detective bureau’s video room.

An hour after Dupree had been placed in the room, Ballard entered. She and Bosch had just been informed by Deputy Valens at Men’s Central that Dennard Dorsey was safe and in protective isolation away from the Crip tank. He had also told them that a review of recordings off the two pay phones in the tank revealed that an inmate named Clinton Townes had placed a collect call at the exact time of the missed incoming call registered on Dupree’s burner.

Ballard was confident that she had all she needed to flip Dupree. She entered the interview room with a rights waiver form and a large evidence envelope containing the smaller envelope of cash recovered in Dupree’s arrest.

Dupree’s hands were cuffed behind him to a chair anchored to the floor. The room was ripe with his body odor, a sign that he was nervous—as anybody held in custody would be.

“What the fuck is this?” he said. “You hold me in here like this for fucking child support?”

“Not quite, Marcel,” Ballard said. “We pulled you in on the child support thing, but this isn’t about that and I’m pretty sure you know it.”

It suddenly dawned on Dupree that he recognized Ballard.

“You,” he said. “I seen you at Dulan’s.”

“That’s right,” Ballard said as she pulled out her chair and sat down across the table from him. “I didn’t hear everything you and Kidd talked about. But I heard a lot.”

“Nah, you didn’t hear shit. We were tight.”

Ballard took her phone off her belt and held it up to show him.

“I got it all on here,” she said. “Our tech unit can do amazing things with audio. Even bring up whispers. So we’re going to see about that, but it doesn’t really matter.”

She put the phone down on her thigh where he couldn’t see its screen.

“I’m here to explain to you what your situation is and how I can help you and you can help yourself,” she said. “But Marcel, for me to do that you have to waive your rights and talk to me.”

“I don’t talk to the po-lice,” Dupree said. “And I don’t waive nothin’.”

This was good. He did not say the magic words—I want a lawyer—and until he did, she could work on convincing him that it was in his best interest to talk to her.

“Marcel, you’re fucked. We found the gun in your car.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about a gun.”

“Nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson? Satin finish? I’d bring it in to show you but it’s against the rules.”

“Never seen no gun like that.”

“Except it was tucked up under the seat you were sitting in when you got popped a couple hours ago. So you can go with the never-seen-it-before claim, but it’s going to go down in flames—and you’re a twice-convicted felon, Marcel. That means five years back in a cage just for possession of a firearm.”

She let that sink in for a moment. Dupree shook his head woefully.

“You people planted it,” he said.

“That’ll work about as well as I-never-seen-it-before,” Ballard said. “Be smart, Marcel. Listen to what I can do for you.”

“Fuck. Go ahead.”

“I can help you with this. I can even make it go away. But it’s a trade, Marcel. I need you to cooperate with me or we shut this down here and now and I file the gun charge and whatever else I can come up with. That’s the choice here.”

She waited. He said nothing. She started reciting the Miranda rights warning. He interrupted.

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk to you. But I want it in writing.”

“Let me finish and then you have to sign the waiver.”

She started the warning from the beginning. She didn’t want any lawyer down the line to complain of improper advisement. When she was finished, she asked if he was right- or left-handed.

“Right.”

“Okay, I’ll take the cuff off your right hand and you sign. You get froggy with me and there are four guys watching this on the other side of that door. You try to hurt me and they will definitely hurt you in a way you’ll never recover from. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I get it. Come on, let’s just do this. Let me sign the motherfuckin’ paper.”

Ballard set the waiver form and a pen down in front of Dupree. She then got up and moved behind him, uncuffed his right wrist, and snapped the open cuff closed around the middle bar of the chair’s backrest. She stayed behind him.

“Go ahead and sign, then bring your hand back here.”

Dupree signed the document and did as instructed. Ballard reversed the process and recuffed him, then went back to her seat. She returned her cell phone to her thigh.

“Now you sign a paper,” Dupree said. “Says you drop the gun charge for my help.”

Ballard shook her head.

“You haven’t given me any help,” she said. “You help me and I’ll get the D.A.’s Office to put it in writing. That’s the deal. Yes or no? I’m running out of patience with you.”

Dupree shook his head.

“I know I’m fucked,” he said. “Just ask your questions.”

“Okay, good,” Ballard said. “I’ll start by letting you know we had Elvin Kidd on a wiretap, Marcel—all his phone calls and texts. We got the text to you where he set up the meeting today at Dulan’s. We have you meeting with him there and we have this.”

She opened the evidence envelope and slid out the envelope full of cash.

“He hired you to hit somebody at Men’s Central and you agreed to arrange it. Now that is conspiracy to commit murder on top of the gun charge. So, you are in a bottomless hole here that you are never climbing out of unless you give us something we like better than you. You understand? That’s how this works.”

“What do you want?”

“Tell me the story. Tell me who Kidd wanted hit and why. I need a name to stop it from happening. Because if it’s too late, then it’s too late for you. No deals. You’re done.”

“A guy named D-squared.”

“That doesn’t help me. Who is D-squared?”

“I don’t even know his first name. His last name is Dorsey. Like the high school.”

“Your call in the car outside Dulan’s. You set this in motion, didn’t you?”

“Nah, I was just calling a friend.”

“Clinton Townes? Was that your friend?”

“What the fuck?”

“I told you. We had this wired from the start. We knew about Dorsey and we knew about Townes. But it’s still conspiracy to commit murder and that makes your gun charge look like a walk in the park. Conspiracy to commit jumps you up to life without, Marcel. You know that, right?”

“Motherfuckers, you played me.”

“That’s right—and now you’ve got one path to the light, Marcel. It’s called substantial assistance. That’s you giving me everything. Everything you know. And you can start by telling me why Elvin Kidd wanted D-squared hit.”

Dupree shook his head.

“I don’t know—he didn’t say,” he said. “He just said he wanted him taken care of.”

Ballard leaned across the table.

“Elvin Kidd is retired,” she said. “He’s out of the game. He’s running a fucking construction company in Rialto. You don’t run a hit on one of your own in Men’s Central for three thousand dollars without a damn good reason. So if you want to help yourself here, you’ll answer the question: What did he tell you?”

Dupree’s eyes were cast down at the table. The dread he was feeling was almost palpable. Ballard was looking at a man realizing that life as he had known it was gone. He was now a fifty-one-year-old snitch and would forever be an outcast in the world he knew. He was a violent criminal but Ballard felt empathy for him. He had been born into a dog-eat-dog world, and now he was the meal.

“He say this guy crossed him from way back and now he’s causing problems,” Dupree said. “That’s all. Look, I’d tell you if I knew. I’m cooperating but I don’t know. He wanted him hit, he paid the money, and with an OG like Kidd, I don’t ask no questions.”

“Then why was he mad at you at Dulan’s? He raised his voice.”

“He mad ’cause I gave out his number so D-squared could talk to him. I thought it was legit because D used to be his boy on the blocks, back in the day. I thought they maybe still have business together or something. I didn’t know. I fucked up and gave him the number. E-K was mad about that.”

“So what was the call in the car after Dulan’s?”

“I had to set it up, you know. Get the word to my boy Townes.”

Ballard knew that while there were pay phones that allowed inmates to call out from their modules at Men’s Central, no one could simply call in. But it was well documented that gangs used various methods of getting messages into the jail. Mothers, wives, girlfriends, and lawyers of incarcerated gangsters often carried gang business inside. But the call Dupree got from Townes seemed to have come too quickly for that method. Townes appeared to have gotten the message to call Dupree within thirty minutes of the meeting at Dulan’s. There had long been rumors of gangs using jail deputies to get messages inside—deputies motivated by threat or extortion or just plain greed.

“How’d you get the word inside?” Ballard asked.

“A guy I know. He take the message for me.”

“Come on, Marcel. What guy? Who did you call?”

“I thought this was about Dorsey.”

“It’s about everything. Who got the message to Townes?”

Ballard felt her phone buzz on her thigh and looked down to read the text from Bosch.

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