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 his mailbox, 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.”
Bosch knew she was talking about Los Angeles County superior court judge Charles Rowan.
“Is Rowan up on rotation, or is he your judge?” he asked.
“My go-to,” Ballard said. “Masser thinks it’s going to be a squeaker, and I’m hoping I can use my charms with Rowan to push him across the finish line.”
“Yeah, I remember back in the day, he had a reputation. You want me to meet you there?”
“Thanks, Harry, but you’re not my father. Dealing with guys like Rowan is nothing new. I can handle him.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“I can come to you afterward. Brentwood’s nearby.”
“We have to figure out if Rawls is even here. He may have figured out from what Hastings told him that we were only a few moves away from getting to him.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Once I get this signed, we’ll knock on doors and figure out if he’s flown the coop.”
“Okay, I’ll be here.”
They disconnected. Bosch looked across the street at the DGP store. He had a viewing angle through the front window to the shipping counter, where it looked like the employee was reading a book while waiting for the next customer.
Bosch liked the vantage point he had and wasn’t sure the parking space would be available if he left it to drive another circuit around the building. Montana was a major shopping area and parking spaces weren’t left open for long. But that back door bothered him. He didn’t know whether there was an interior stairway that connected the shop with the office above it. Either way, it was impossible for a single set of eyes to keep a complete watch on the business and office. He was hoping Ballard would get there soon with a signed search warrant.