Judge Charles Rowan’s eyes lit up when he saw Ballard at his front door.
“Renée! My favorite detective in all the City of Angels. How are you, my dear?”
“I’m doing fine, Judge. How are you?”
“Better now that I get to look at you. What have you brought for me?”
He actually took a step back to better appraise her, his gaze lingering on her for too long. Ballard was disgusted but maintained her all-business front.
“I think you know,” she said. “I’ve got a search warrant app on a case that is breaking as we speak. Can I tell you about it?”
“Of course,” Rowan said. “Come in, come in.”
Rowan stepped further back but opened the door only enough for Ballard to pass close by him as she entered. Her discomfort level went up another notch.
Rowan was well into his sixties, easily two decades older than Ballard. He had a full head of silver-gray hair and a matching beard. His prodigious ear hair was a match in color as well.
She had been in Rowan’s home before and knew he lived alone after several failed marriages. She also knew to turn to the right, where the dining room was located, as opposed to the living room, where the judge might try to sit too close to her on the couch.
“Don’t you want to be comfortable in the living room?” Rowan asked.
But Ballard was already to the dining room.
“The table here is fine, Judge,” she said. “My partner is sitting on a location by himself and I don’t want to leave him hanging. It could get dangerous. So, if I could get you to take a look at this, I’ll be able to get back out there.”
“Of course,” Rowan said. “But first things first. What can I get you? A glass of iced tea, a Chardonnay, what would you like?”
“Really, Judge, what I would like is for you to read the warrant and hopefully find that everything adds up and is in order.”
She gave him the most winning smile she could manage under the circumstances. She then put the warrant application down on the table and pulled out the chair for him. She was going to remain standing.
Rowan looked at her and seemed to get the message that this wasn’t going to turn into a social visit. He moved to the chair and sat down.
“Well, let me see what you have here,” he said.
“I can talk you through it,” Ballard said. “But if you just want to read it, everything is right there.”
“Did you go through the District Attorney’s Office with this?”
“Not exactly. I’m now running the cold case unit, Judge, and we have a retired deputy D.A. assigned to the unit who reviews and helps us write our warrants. He came in from home today to work on this because he knew time was of the essence.”
“Really? What’s this deputy’s name?”
“Paul Masser. He worked in Major Crimes at the D.A.’s.”
“I know him. A capable prosecutor.”
“He is.”
“So…let’s see.”
The judge started reading the first page and Ballard felt her guts tighten. The first four pages of the application were standard boilerplate legalese that was virtually the same on every warrant a judge was presented with. Rowan could have flipped through these to the meat of the application—the case summary and probable cause statement—but he wasn’t doing that, and Ballard had to believe it was because she had deflected his attempt to turn this into a social visit, if not something more.
Still, she said nothing for fear she might anger the judge and cause him to reject the warrant. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and just watched.
Rowan remained silent until he flipped to the third page and spoke without looking up from the document.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something, Renée?”
“No, Judge, I’m fine. My partner’s waiting out there.”
“I understand. I’m going as fast as I can. I have to be thorough. I don’t want this to come back and bite me in appellate court should I see fit to sign it and send you on your way.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Charlie. We’re old friends, Renée.”
“Charlie…then.”
Finally, he got to the statement of facts regarding the case and then the PC statement. Ballard checked her watch. She was worried about what was going on with Bosch as he waited for her to get to Montana Avenue.
“Checking your watch does not help,” Rowan said. “You may be in a hurry, but I can’t be. Not when we are considering the search and seizure of a man’s properties and body.”
“I understand, sir,” Ballard said. “I mean, Charlie.”
She was now sure that Rowan was going reject the warrant because she had rejected him. She was chasing down a serial killer, and this judge would be so petty as to thwart that effort because his pride was bruised. Ballard wished she had just taken her chances with Canterbury.
“Renée, would you go into the living room?” Rowan suddenly asked.
“Uh, why, Charlie?” Ballard asked.
“Because in the living room is a door to my home office. On the desk you will find my stamp and its ink pad. Would you retrieve them so I can sign and seal this search warrant?”
“Of course.”
Surprised and relieved, Ballard quickly crossed the entry hall and went through the living room to a set of double doors that opened to an office. She spotted the stamp that carried the seal of the superior court sitting on an ink pad on the desk.
On the way back to the dining room, she heard her phone buzz. It was Bosch. She didn’t take the call. She wanted to get the search warrant signed and stamped and then get away from the judge. She’d call Bosch back after.