“Well, that explains some things,” Ballard said.
“She inherited her husband’s partnership and his practice,” Bosch said. “Unless maybe it was a joint practice all along.”
“I wonder what she knew or knows about the factoring.”
“And the murders, including her own husband’s.”
Bosch pointed to an empty parking space in the corner of the parking lot.
“Right there, that’s where he was parked,” he said. “The gunman supposedly came over from the Marina, crossed the lot, and shot him right through the window. Two head shots, very clean, very fast.”
“I take it no brass was left behind?” Ballard asked.
“None.”
“That would’ve been too easy. And the slugs?”
Bosch shook his head.
“It wasn’t my case,” he said. “But from what I remember, no go on the slugs. They flattened when they hit bone.”
Ballard drove out of the parking lot onto Lincoln Boulevard and headed north toward the 10 freeway.
“So, what else do you know about that investigation?” she asked.
Bosch explained that the John William James murder case was handled by Pacific Division Homicide, where it was determined that there were not enough reasons or evidence to connect it to the Albert Lee killing.
“I tried to get it there,” Bosch said. “But they wouldn’t listen. A guy named Larkin on the table at Pacific worked it. I think he was a short-timer, had, like, three months till he pulled the pin, and wasn’t looking for a big conspiracy case. By then I was two years in on Lee and I could not make the connection that would force the issue. Last thing I heard was that they were calling it robbery. James wore a ten-thousand-dollar Rolex his wife had given him. It was gone.”
“His wife who inherited his ownership in the lab as well as his practice,” Ballard said. “When did she give it to him?”
“That I don’t know. But as far as I do know, the case was never cleared. It would now be a cold case and the murder book would be at the Ahmanson Center.”
“You want me to make a U-turn?”
“It all depends on what else you’ve got going today.”
“I have my shift tonight and need to call my victims on the Midnight Men thing. They’re all working up surveys for me.”
“Another nexus to be found.”
“Hopefully. I also want to get to Raffa’s wife to ask about his twenty-five-thousand-dollar loan.”
Ballard saw an opening and made a U-turn on Lincoln. She headed south toward Westchester, the area of the city near LAX.
“What a treat!” she said. “We get to hit airport traffic from two airports in the same day.”
“This traffic is a breeze,” Bosch said. “Wait till the pandemic is over and people get out and want to travel. Good luck then.”
The Ahmanson Training Center was on Manchester Boulevard and was part of the LAPD network of training facilities for new recruits. The department had long outgrown the academy in the hills surrounding Dodger Stadium and had ancillary facilities here and up in the Valley. The citywide homicide archive was also housed here. It had opened only a few years before, when the glut of unsolved cases — six thousand since 1960 — had overburdened filing space in the department’s divisions. The murder books were on shelves in a room as big as a regular neighborhood library, and there was an ongoing project to digitize cases so there would always be space for more.
“You have your retiree badge or ID card with you?” Ballard asked. “In case they ask.”
“I have my card in my wallet,” Bosch said. “Didn’t think I’d be badging anybody.”
“You probably won’t need it. On weekends and holidays they just have a couple recruits on shit duty keeping the place open. They’ll probably be too intimidated by the likes of you to ask for ID.”
“Then I guess it’s good to know I can still bring it.”
“Why don’t you bring your printouts so we can get the date for the book we want to pull.”
After parking, they went up the front steps and into a grand hallway with large LAPD do-gooder photographs lining the walls. In a previous incarnation the center had been the corporate headquarters for an oil company. Ballard imagined the walls had then been lined with do-gooder oil-production photos.
The homicide library was on the first floor at the end of the grand hall. Its double doors were unmarked, the thinking likely being that it was not the best thing to advertise that the city had a whole library of murder books from unsolved cases.