After putting the gun down on the man’s back, she pulled his hands together and wrapped the duct tape around his wrists, unspooling it from the roll as she went. She could feel him trying to keep his wrists parted.
“Stop fighting it,” she commanded.
“I’m not fighting it,” he yelled into the floor. “I can’t get them together.”
Ballard thumbed open the knife’s blade and cut the tape. She then grabbed the gun and stood up. She put the tape and the knife on the desk and then reached down and roughly yanked the ski mask off the top of his head, bouncing his face on the floor and releasing a torrent of red hair.
“Goddammit! That cut my lip.”
“That’s the least of your problems.”
Ballard reached down and picked up the garage opener. She recognized it as a programmable remote like the one she had been given by her apartment landlord. He had told her that once a year the HOA changed the code as a security measure and he would provide her with the new combination to install. She now understood how the Midnight Men got into each victim’s home.
“Who gave you the garage code?” she asked.
She got no answer.
“That’s okay. We’ll find out.”
She stepped back from him, moving to the side.
“Turn your head, show me your face.”
He did. She saw a small amount of blood on his lips. He looked young, no more than twenty-five.
“What’s your full name?”
“I’m not telling you my name. You want to arrest me, arrest me. I broke in, big deal. Book me, and we’ll see what happens.”
“Bad news, kid. I’m not a cop and I’m not here to book you.”
“Bullshit. I can tell you’re a cop.”
Ballard bent down and held the revolver out so he could see it.
“Cops have handcuffs, and cops don’t carry little revolvers like this. But when we’re through with you and your partner, you’re going to wish we were going to book you.”
“Yeah, who’s ‘we’？ I’m not seeing anybody else here.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
She wanted to wrap his ankles with tape to prevent him from getting up but she also wanted to keep him talking. He wasn’t giving her anything yet but she felt that the more he talked, the better the chance he might slip up and provide something useful or important.
“Tell me about the photos.”
“What photos?”
“And videos. We know you and your pal documented the rapes. For what? For yourselves or somebody else?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What rapes? I broke in to steal shit, that’s it.”
“And who was on the phone with you?”
“Getaway driver.”
The man shifted on the floor so that his right cheek was down and he could look up at Ballard. She responded by pulling out her phone and leaning down to take a photo of him. He immediately turned his head so he was facedown again.
“This’ll go out all over the Internet. Everyone in the world will know who you are and what you did.”
“Fuck off.”
“How did you pick them? The women.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You don’t seem to understand, Brian, that you are not in the hands of the police or, shall we say, the traditional justice system. You were half right. I was a cop, but I’m not anymore. I quit because the system doesn’t work. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do to protect the innocent from monsters like you. You’re now in the custody of a different justice system. You’re going to tell us everything we want to know, and you’re going to answer for what you’ve done.”
“You know what, you’re fucking crazy.”
“What did you mean when you said ‘the guy’ didn’t tell you about the safe room?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t say that.”
“Who told you about Hannah Stovall?”
“Who’s that?”
“Who gave you the garage code?”
“Nobody. I want a lawyer. Now.”
“No lawyer can help you here. There are no laws here.”
Her phone started to buzz. She pulled it and checked the screen. It was Harry Bosch. The time on the screen told her that she was ten minutes late with her hourly check in. She accepted the call and spoke first.
“I’ve got one of them,” she said.
“What do you mean, you’ve got one of them?” Bosch asked.