“I’ve gotta go,” she said.
“You sure?” he said. “I don’t go back in till tomorrow. I thought maybe we’d take the dog and — ”
“I have to. This is my case.”
“I thought you didn’t have any cases anymore.”
Ballard didn’t answer. She went back to his bedroom to gather her things and get Pinto out of his travel crate, where he was sleeping. She had been using clothes out of the surf bag she kept in the car, while Pinto had been treated to canned food from a mini-market in what passed for the town center of Acton. Her stay with Single had started as just a home-cooked meal from Single’s backyard barbecue — he had revealed in Elysian Park that he prided himself on good barbecue and she had put him to the test.
After walking Pinto in the scrub area surrounding Single’s home, she loaded her things and the dog into the Defender and was ready to go.
At the open door, he kissed her goodbye.
“You know, this could work,” Single said. “You keep your place in town and surf when I’m on shift. Three days on the water, four in the mountains.”
“So you think because you make a great pulled chicken sandwich that a girl’s just gonna swoon and fall into your arms, huh?” she said.
“Well, I also make a great brisket if you’d go back on the red meat.”
“Maybe next time I’ll break down.”
“So there will be a next time?”
“A lot’s going to ride on that brisket.”
She gently pushed him away and got in the Defender.
“You be careful,” he said.
“You too,” she replied.
On the way south to the city she waited until she cleared the Santa Clarita Valley and had solid phone service before calling the number she had been given for John Welborne. The call went to the Larchmont Chronicle, the community newspaper that served Hancock Park and its surrounding neighborhoods, for which, she learned, he was the publisher, editor, and reporter. That he was a member of the media made the call a bit tricky. Ballard needed information from him but didn’t want it to end up in his paper.
“Mr. Welborne, this is Detective Ballard with the LAPD. Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
“Yes, of course. Is this about the article?”
“Which article?”
“We published a story Thursday about the fundraiser for the Wilshire Division officer who lost his wife to Covid.”
“Oh, no, not that. I’m with Hollywood Division. I need to talk to you off the record about something unrelated to the newspaper. I don’t want it in your paper — not yet, at least. This is an off-the-record conversation. Okay?”
“Not a problem, Detective Ballard. We’re a monthly, and it’s a couple weeks till deadline anyway.”
“Good. Thank you. I want to ask you about your call this morning to the Bureau of Street Lighting. You left a message reporting that there’s a streetlight out on North Citrus Avenue.”
“Uh, yes, I did leave a message, but Detective, I didn’t suggest that any crime had been committed.”
“Of course not. But it may have some connection to a case we’re investigating. That’s why we were alerted and that’s also the part I want to keep quiet.”
“I understand.”
“Can you tell me who told you about the light being out?”
“It was a good friend of my wife, Martha’s. Her name is Hannah Stovall. She knew she could call me and I’d alert the appropriate authorities. Most people don’t even know we have a Bureau of Street Lighting. But they know that I know people who know people. They come to me.”
“And she called you?”
“Actually, no, she sent an email to my wife, asking for advice. I took it from there.”
“I understand. Can you tell me what you know about Hannah Stovall? For example, how old do you think she is?”
“Oh, I would say early thirties. She’s young.”
“Is she married, lives alone, has roommates — what?”
“She’s not married and I’m pretty sure she lives by herself.”
“And do you know what she does for a living?”
“Yes, she’s an engineer. She works for the Department of Transportation. I’m not sure what she does but I could ask Martha. This sounds like you are seeing if she fits into some sort of profile.”
“Mr. Welborne, I can’t really share with you what the investigation is about at this time.”