4

“This is the neighborhood where they found him,” said Ronnie. “It’s nice. Look at all those big old trees. Sycamore, camphor, sweetgum, Aleppo pine.”

“It’s pretty much what I expected,” said Sid. “The twigs and leaves and needles are probably what caused the storm drain to get blocked.”

“The report Hemphill gave us seems to support your theory. The first cop on the scene was a guy named Stearns. He said the body was entangled in vegetation when the DPW found it.”

Sid parked the black BMW at the curb. “Where’s the drain where they found him?”

“The map indicates they opened the one right by the corner, on the northwest side.” They walked to the corner and looked down at the storm drain opening. It was set sideways into the curb, with a metal grate covering it. From the curb nearly to the sidewalk was a concrete slab with a manhole cover set into the middle.

“I don’t think I ever looked at these things closely before,” Sid said.

Ronnie looked at the printed sheet she carried. “It says here that each year these drains keep eight hundred forty thousand pounds of trash from entering the LA River. There are twelve thousand of these things, called ‘connector pipe screens, or CPS.’ The fancy ones like this one have ‘automatic retractable screens, or ARS.’”

“Why do they always have to do that?”

“Give initials?”

“Yeah. As though you couldn’t figure out what the first letter of each word is, and as though the initials mattered.”

“It’s a government publication, or GP.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“It’s a pretty impressive system, though.” She read. “‘Even on the driest day, there are enough millions of gallons of runoff from sprinklers to fill the Rose Bowl. On a rainy day, the flow can be ten billion gallons.’ The storm drains are completely separate from the sewage system. This water all goes straight into the ocean.”

“When was the system built?”

“The nineteen thirties and forties, like most things in the east Valley. These screens and things are much more recent.”

Sid stopped and looked up and down the street. “I’m starting to get a feeling this can’t be the crime scene. He wasn’t killed here and dumped into the drain. People would see the killing or hear the gunshots. And the screens, retractable or not, would keep anything as big as a man from getting into the main drainpipe.”

“Maybe he was put into the system somewhere upstream from here, and he got washed along until he hit a snag.”

“It’s possible they hoped he would make it into the river channel and get washed all the way to the ocean,” Sid said. “We’ll have to find out where he could have gone in. Where did he live?”

Ronnie leafed through her printed sheets. “Twelve thousand eight sixty Cambridge in Woodland Hills, number six.”

“Something like eleven miles west of here. I guess that’s out.”

As they walked along the street toward their car, Ronnie said, “He must have been dumped at some access point somewhere upstream. He could even have been murdered a day or two before the big rain. When the storm came, he would suddenly be in a high-pressure bath, cleaned of every bit of external blood, hairs, and fibers, and as he went along, he’d have an unknown quantity of meaningless stuff attach to him.”

“I’m starting to see why the homicide people got nowhere.” Sid stepped onto the concrete slab above the curb, knelt and took a large screwdriver out of his coat, then put the end of it into one of the holes on top of a manhole cover and pried.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting a feel for the structure of these things.” With difficulty he lifted the edge of the cover and slid it onto the concrete.

“I read that these covers weigh a hundred and fifty pounds, which is why scrap scavengers sometimes steal them—that’s a lot of iron.”

“It’s not light, but one man can get one open.” He looked down, with Ronnie at his shoulder staring down into the space beneath the concrete. She took a small LED flashlight out of her purse and shone it into the manhole. The space was a concrete box about six feet square, and then a screened-off opening to the underground conduit.

She said, “There’s another screen down there before water gets to the storm drain. Even if you pushed a body through the manhole, it wouldn’t go into the drainage system. It would just stay here. I guess that’s what it’s for—not bodies, but keeping things from plugging the main drain.”

“So where did James Ballantine get into the system?” he said.

“Time to take a trip downtown to the Department of Public Works.”

Two hours later, they were in the main office of the DPW, talking to a supervisor named Alan Weiss. He took a large notebook off a shelf in his office and said, “I remember the case very well. We helped the police try to figure out the same thing. There was a detective from the North Hollywood division. Detective Kapp. We looked up the information for him. We have lots of breaks in the water supply system—three or four a day. Not many in the storm sewers. I can show you what we found.”

The Abels followed him to a small office, and watched him set the notebook down. He leafed through the notebook, took out a map, and unfolded it. “Here. Here’s what we found. Nothing in the existing system had been opened for months before then. With the catch basins and the grates over the openings, there’s hardly ever a reason. And the drains themselves have held up for about eighty years.”

Ronnie pointed. “What are these red marks on the edges for?”

“Progress. Each of those dots is a place where a developer was building a new subdivision. Up there in the north edge of the Valley in the foothills is the only place where there’s room.”

“New streets, new storm drains,” said Sid. “So they were adding new ones at that time?”

“Right,” Weiss said. “They weren’t all going in at once, but when we went through the records for Detective Kapp, we found out that during the week of the murder, there were three places where new streets were going in. And under them, drain sections were being added to the system.”

“And if somebody dragged the body into an open section of storm sewer—far enough in so that the workers wouldn’t see it—do you think they might pave over that section before anybody noticed?” said Sid.

“That’s what I think is most likely,” said Weiss. “When you add a section to a drain, you dig up the last few feet of it to make a connection, but no more than that.”

“Do you have a theory about which drain it was?” asked Ronnie.

“I don’t,” he said. “But Detective Kapp did. This one, the farthest south.”

“Did he say why?”

“Because this site was the closest to where Mr. Ballantine ended up, and closest to populated areas. He said the killer would be more likely to have driven by and noticed the construction. Whether Mr. Ballantine was lured to the spot or carried there, the process would be easier if the place was closer. And if his body was liable to get caught up in a snag somewhere—which is what happened—then the theory that it traveled from one of the longer distances starts to seem less likely.”

“It sounds logical,” said Ronnie. “But if you were going to commit a murder, particularly with a firearm, wouldn’t you look for the most remote spot you could find?”

Weiss smiled. “That’s not really my field, but I would think so.”

Sid finished writing down the addresses of the drains that had been open a year ago. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Weiss. You’ve been terrific.” In two more minutes, the Abels were out of the building and walking to their car.

Ronnie said, “What do you think?”

“The killer found a place where there was an opening in the storm sewer system a year ago,” said Sid. “Which one he found is pure chance. He wouldn’t have had any way of knowing about all three of them and picking one. He must have seen one and used it.”

“We probably ought to take a look at all three and see if there’s anything about one of them that connects to James Ballantine.”

“We’ll need to know more about Ballantine before we can do that,” said Sid. “Right now I’d like to go home and spend some time going over the information that Hemphill gave us.”

They drove home and sat down at the pair of desks they used in what used to be a recreation room, and Sid untied the thick package that Hemphill had given them. There were a number of file folders, most of them full of papers that had been made on copying machines. They split the pile of files and went to work.

There were folders of newspaper clippings, a copy of James Ballantine’s personnel file, files of correspondence.

They read through a few files, and Ronnie held one sheet up. “I’m surprised they have these on a case that’s still open. It quotes the autopsy report.”

“Somebody at the company must be pretty persuasive. What does it say?”

“Cause of death was two shots to the back of the skull, both .22 Long Rifle, 36 grain, copper plated. Unable to determine a manufacturer. They bounced around inside the skull doing damage, but didn’t go through.”

“Interesting. The cheapest, most common round for sale, and probably the quietest. Fired in semiauto pistols, revolvers, rifles of every configuration. He was dead before he hit the water, right?”

“Yes. No water in the lungs. And they didn’t determine a time of death, because he was in the water so long. He could have been dead for days before he got washed away.” She paused. “What does this sound like to you?”

Sid shrugged. “If they’d shot him once, I’d say it might have started as an accident. If they’d beaten him up first, I’d say it was a robbery. Not this—two to the head. What they wanted was to kill him efficiently and make him disappear.”

“So maybe a personal enemy, maybe a pro.”

“Have you found anything in the files you looked at that might suggest any enemies?”

“There’s a memo here that the company president wrote recording what Detective Kapp told him about his interviews.” She pushed papers aside until she found it. “Here it is. The memo is dated June eighth, a couple of months into the investigation. Everybody the police interviewed said Ballantine was a quiet, decent man who got along well with everyone at work, but didn’t socialize much with his colleagues, except at official events—company conferences, the Christmas party, and so on. No evidence of drugs, drinking, gambling. Took very few sick days.” Ronnie shrugged. “Of course, saying nice things about a murdered man helps keep you off the suspect list.”

“Let’s keep at it,” Sid said. “All this is information we don’t have to work for. There’s got to be something that the homicide people have missed.”

They kept at it until they had each read every bit of paper that Hemphill had given them. At eleven o’clock they went into the kitchen, where Sid poured them each a glass of scotch on ice, and then to the living room. Ronnie switched on the television and they watched the local news at a low volume while they talked. “Did you hear from Mitch or Janice today?” said Sid.

“Mitch texted me. He wanted to know what to get Nancy for their anniversary.”

“A new husband who knows what she wants.”

“Nice, Sid. That’s our son. And Janice wants to know if we can fly to Chicago for Thanksgiving.”

“Who the hell knows what he’ll be doing in eight months? What kind of life would that be?”

“Never been my problem,” said Ronnie. “For the past thirty years I’ve been looking forward to being bored. I’m just not sure I want to go fifteen hundred miles for that and a dry turkey.”

“Nice, Veronica. That’s our daughter.”

They both knew they would go, and that Sid would make the plane reservations the next day, before prices began their inexorable rise month by month until holiday season. If he forgot, she would remind him. He stood, holding his glass, and took a step toward the bar.

“Better not drink too much if you still want to fool around,” she said.

He set the glass down on its coaster and sat down on the couch beside her. “I just don’t want to rush you.”

“The hell you don’t.” She kissed his cheek, stood, and walked off toward the hallway to the bedroom.

It was afternoon the next day when they drove north on the 170 Freeway toward the northern part of the San Fernando Valley. Away from the city center past the hillside houses that belonged to the rich or the optimistic were pockets of poverty that hadn’t gotten much better than they’d been before World War II, only more crowded. Beyond them were the old places that were not small ranches anymore, but still had enough land to pasture and stable horses. More and more of the land had been broken up into communities that had no reason to be built except that the population never stopped spreading outward to cover any empty space. Ronnie kept looking at the picture of the storm drain map she had taken with her cell phone in the DPW office, and then switching to the GPS map for their present location.

“One of these streets ahead is Cobblestone Way,” she said. “Keep your eyes open for the sign, and don’t drive so fast.”

“There’s traffic building up behind me,” he said.

She spun around in her seat to glance at the empty road behind him. “There is exactly one car, and it’s half a mile back.”

“Sure,” he said. “Because he doesn’t want to crowd me. Here’s Cobblestone already. Good thing I drove fast.” Sid turned and they moved slowly up the side street. The houses were all new, all two-story buildings on lots they filled almost completely. There was a miniature Tuscan villa, a Cape Cod with clapboards, a Spanish-style house, a Tudor. It didn’t take the eye long to notice that they were all made from a single set of plans, with variations in roof material, siding, and windows to imply a variety of styles. The next series had the same selection of styles, but used a mirror image of the sequence, so the garage was on the left and the entrance door on the right.

“This is the first possibility,” Ronnie said. “Nothing that’s here existed a year ago. The storm drains got closed in on March fifteenth, and the final stage of paving happened on April second. When James Ballantine turned up in the storm drain in North Hollywood, this was one place where he could have started. He was at work on March fourth, and was found March sixth. It would have been on or just before March fifth.”

“Okay,” said Sid. “So I’m picturing this block on March fifth. It was raining hard, and had been, on and off, for a couple of days. If these houses hadn’t been framed and closed in yet, there wouldn’t be any carpenters working on those days—too wet.”

Ronnie studied the storm drain map. “Right. This place is Detective Kapp’s candidate for crime scene.”

“But there are quite a few older houses on the next block that were certainly here a year ago. If he was put in the drain here, he was probably dead already so nobody would hear the shots, and they’d have to do it at night, so nobody saw it.”

They visited another site in the northern part of the Valley in the foothills below the wall of mountains. It looked similar to the first neighborhood, with a few variations.

“This is a little bit newer,” said Ronnie. “If you picture the place a year ago, it’s a possibility. There wouldn’t have been people living close by who would hear a small-caliber gunshot, and probably nobody would pass by to see the body being dragged into the pipe. But this place isn’t on the way to anything, and it would be hard to discover by accident.”

They reached the third development as it began to get dark. This was the farthest north, a bit higher elevation than the others, but still not high enough to notice unless the observer happened to be thinking about water flows. There were two streets that looked like the others, with many of the homes already occupied and only a few that still had the realtors’ signs on their lawns. But there were also three more streets with houses in varying stages of construction, and one that was only a gravel track through an empty field. On one side there was a single row of foundations dug and poured, with the wooden forms still installed. Far down at the end there were two houses that had been partially framed, like skeletal remains of something that had been started and abandoned. There were no streetlamps in yet. The street was dark.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Sid. “This would be a good place to kill somebody.”

“Or dump a body, anyway.”

Sid stopped the car. “There aren’t any cameras or fences like they sometimes have on construction sites. I guess there’s nothing here to protect yet. Nothing to steal.”

“At least without prying apart the lumber they’ve nailed together,” said Ronnie.

“Too much work for thieves, I guess. Okay. Let’s try to work this out while we can see it. So this guy decides to kill James Ballantine.”

“Or gets hired to kill him.”

“He figures a good place to do it would be in a sparsely populated area north of the city, a place where he can discharge a firearm without waking the neighborhood, because nobody lives in the houses yet. He drives Ballantine up here to look at the lots for sale, or brings him here, maybe drugged or tied up. At some point he shoots him twice in the back of the head with a .22 pistol. The street has an open trench dug in the middle, with a big concrete pipe being laid in as the main channel for storm runoff. The pipe is big enough to drag a body in, and the start of it is already connected to the existing part of the storm drain system. So he drags the victim as far as he can into the completed part of the storm sewer. Right now is the rainy season, and he hopes that as soon as there’s a storm, the body will be swept downstream, maybe all the way to the ocean. Or he might have done this after the rain had already begun. He saw the water running into the drain and realized he had a solution to his body problem.”

“This doesn’t seem like a crime of opportunity to me,” said Ronnie. “There’s too much that’s ideal—no lights, nobody who lives nearby, a way to wash the body of all trace evidence and transport it far away at the same time. You don’t usually find all of those things by happy accident.”

“Okay,” said Sid. “He knew that this development was all new streets, so they’d have to put in pipes to connect with the main storm sewer system. He could have come to the construction site any night and looked closely at the place. With online weather forecasts, he could know in advance when there would be a good day for putting a body in a storm drain. A big rainstorm would also wash away things like footprints and tire tracks and the marks where he’d dragged the body. So it was probably planned.”

Ronnie said, “Right. The .22 rounds would indicate that he met the victim knowing what he was going to do. A pro might use a .22 because it’s relatively quiet, but the victim is just as dead, if you shoot him in the head or heart. But nobody would bring a .22 to a gunfight. He had to know in advance what to bring.”

“Yes,” said Sid. “Is ‘he’ a woman?”

“Maybe,” Ronnie said. “A .22 would be much easier to hide than a bigger pistol on a small body. And a woman could find a way to get in very close.”

“Other possibilities?”

“Dozens,” she said. “Maybe he or she posed as a realtor, an architect, or contractor, and said, ‘I’ll drive you around to look at the lots.’ That way there’s no extra car left here to raise questions. Maybe the shooting took place at an even more remote spot, and he just dumped the body at a construction site on his way home. And there’s still the possibility that this was a psycho out plinking at bottles who saw a lone man in a remote place and wondered what it would be like to kill somebody.”

“And we can’t ignore the fact that Ballantine was black,” said Sid. “It might be too early to rule out racial hatred as a motive.”

“I guess the only things we can rule out right now are suicide and accident. Neither involves two shots to the back of the head,” Ronnie said.

She noticed that Sid was staring into the rearview mirror. “What do you see?”

“I’m not sure. Do you remember about two stops back, there was a car behind us at a distance?”

“You mean when you were speeding?”

“Yeah. Just now, a car came by that intersection back there, and stopped. Whoever was in it seemed to be watching us. Then it pulled forward to where I couldn’t see it, but slowly. It looked like the same car. It’s a fairly small sedan, colored somewhere between dark gray and a dusty black.”

“At the entrance to this street?”

“Yes. They could have been parking up there just out of sight.”

“Why would anybody come down here in the dark?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.” After a moment, he said, “Maybe they’ve been following us all afternoon waiting for a chance to corner us.”

She looked around. “This doesn’t look like a place I want to be cornered.” She released her seat belt.

Sid said. “How do you want to do this?”

“Let’s get out of here, but cautiously. Turn around and head out. Keep our windows open and guns ready, but try to look like a normal couple who were just out looking at a new housing development.” She took out her pistol, released the magazine to verify that it was loaded, reinserted it, and pulled back the pistol’s slide to put a round in the chamber.

Sid swung the car to the side of the road, backed up, and turned around. He drove back along the unpaved road toward the intersection at a slow speed, as though he had not seen anything that made him suspicious. Ronnie rested her pistol on her knee with her finger straight along the side of the trigger guard.

Ronnie said, “I’m trying to spot them, but I don’t see anybody yet.”

“Good.”

“Do you think they could be guards of some kind?”

“There’s not much here to guard yet,” said Sid. “If they are, they’ll be satisfied to see us leave, and not bother us. Of course, it could be somebody from an old case, just waiting to get us into a place like this. It could even be Alex Rinosa.”

“Even if he’s been arrested by now, he wouldn’t know who we are yet.”

“Not usually, but it could happen.”

“Thanks for not saying it’s because I took out the ad about a reward for the Ballantine murder,” she said. “Even though it is.”

Sid drove along the gravel road, staying in the center while they both watched the side windows. When he reached the end of the road he turned to the right, the direction the car had gone. A quarter mile ahead of them was the dark-colored car, sitting beside the road. “That looks like the one,” Sid said.

He accelerated toward the car, but the driver pulled out and drove off quickly. As Sid sped up, so did the dark car, moving off now at a high speed.

“Interesting,” said Ronnie. “I guess he isn’t in a mood to chat.”

Sid kept accelerating. “I am now.”

“Me too,” said Ronnie. “But if that’s not possible, I’d be satisfied to get a picture of their license plate.” She took out her cell phone and prepared it to take a picture.

They were slowly gaining on the car ahead of them. Ronnie steadied her phone on the dashboard, and then decided that she could hold it steadier in her hands at this speed.

Ronnie said, “Get closer. I want to get a license number when he goes under a streetlamp.”

They were gaining. Far ahead, Ronnie saw the shape of a human torso extend itself out the passenger window of the car. “Wait a minute, Sid. That looks like a—”

They saw and heard it at once, a flash from the car far ahead of them, a bang and a sound like a hammer hitting their car, an explosion of glass into the front seat that sprayed Sid’s neck and chest and stung his face. There was now a big spiderweb crack in the windshield above his head with a bullet hole in the center.

Sid took his foot off the gas pedal and let the car coast while he feathered the brake pedal to slow it without losing control.

The dark car’s tires squealed as it spun around the next corner, leaving a small gray cloud from the burning rubber.

Sid stepped on the gas pedal again, heading for the place where the car had disappeared. Ronnie said, “Sid!”

“I know. But now we really want that picture.”

The air was so still that the cloud from the burned rubber hung over the intersection long enough for the Abels to drive through it into the turn.

No car was visible. Sid slowed down and they coasted onto the new street. It was a deserted street ending in a cul-de-sac. “What the hell?”

“I don’t know,” Ronnie said. “I’m looking.”

“Most garage door openers have a lightbulb that stays on for a time after they’ve been used. Look for a glow at the edge of a garage door.”

They drifted along the street looking for any sign that a car had been driven into a garage, but they saw no lights and no motion. When they reached the end of the street, Sid stopped the car and they got out.

Ronnie said, “He knew we were going to catch up. How did he manage to disappear?”

“I’m beginning to think he does this for a living,” Sid said. “I’ll take this side and you take the other.”

“Be extra careful,” she said. “I’m not quite done with you yet.”

“You too. If you see anything at all, signal me and wait.”

They took their positions and began to advance back up the silent, deserted street. There were SOLD signs on most of the lawns, and the few houses that didn’t have one seemed not to be completed. None looked occupied. Sid and Ronnie walked across front lawns with their guns drawn, each of them keeping one shoulder close to the front of each house, stopping at the end to look around the corner, then crossing the driveway or the lawn to the next one. If a garage had a window they aimed a flashlight into it. They directed their flashlight beams down the spaces between houses, trying to detect a place where a driver might have hidden a car.

They were on opposite sides of the street, about three houses from the corner, when Ronnie signaled Sid with her light, and he ran to join her. “What have you got?” he whispered.

“This.” She aimed her flashlight beam between two houses. In the beam Sid could see that a car’s tires had flattened the side lawn in two ruts. She said, “Some of the others have fences or trees between them. He found one where he could drive all the way through to the next street over. He’s long gone.”

Ronnie and Sid watched the helicopter making its passes high overhead, completing larger and larger circles in its search for the dark car, its rotors beating the air with a deep throbbing noise. Now and then its spotlight would sweep across a promising sight on a nearby street, go back and stay on it, and then move on.

Sid looked at his watch. “It’s been hours. They could be in Palm Springs or Santa Barbara or Victorville by now, having their third drink.”

Ronnie sighed. “It’s after closing time. But maybe there’s a minibar in their hotel room.”

Sid said, “I wish there were one here.”

They watched the line of five cops walking the straight road away from them, their flashlights sweeping back and forth on the pavement, the gutters, and the weedy margins as they went.

The radio in a nearby cop’s hand said, “Hold up.” There was a brief silence and the voice said, “I’ve got something.”

Two sergeants and a detective hurried down to the spot to join the cop who had spoken. Sid and Ronnie listened to the radio traffic and watched the cops. In a few minutes the officer in charge of the scene, a plump, red-faced detective named Hebert, returned holding a plastic evidence bag with a brass casing. He announced to nobody in particular, “It’s a .308 Winchester. It must have been a hell of a shot from a fast-moving car. About three hundred yards.”

“I was impressed at the time,” said Sid.

Hebert said, “Have either of you thought of a good reason why the two men would shoot at you?”

“Not a good reason,” said Sid. “We were trying to come close enough to see who they were, or get a picture of their plate.”

“We told you about the case we came here to investigate,” said Ronnie. “We were trying to figure out where a victim could have been dumped in a storm drain a year ago during the storms and end up in North Hollywood. We’re just getting started.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not as though we knew too much, so somebody would want to kill us. We don’t know anything yet. The original homicide detective in North Hollywood, Detective Kapp, had been trying to figure out where the victim was dumped, and we were just here to see if we could sort out which of the leads he had was the right one.”

“I’d say the shooter may have just told you,” said Detective Hebert. “Well, it’s after two a.m. I think we’ve got about all the information you can give us for the moment. If you two want to go home, you can.”

“Thanks,” Sid said.

“We’ll call if we need anything else.”

Sid and Ronnie walked back to their car. Sid got in behind the wheel and looked up at the hole in the windshield and the milky, pulverized safety glass around it.

“I’m alert enough to drive,” Ronnie said. “If you’re about to doze off and kill us both, I’d be delighted to take over.”

“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m feeling alert. That big shot of adrenaline just after night fell got me going, and then standing around for hours didn’t make me tired, just frustrated.” He drove to the end of the road and then south away from the development. The roads at the northern edge of the San Fernando Valley were dark and sparsely traveled at this time of night. It was too late for the bar crowd to come home and too early for the early risers to go to work.

“Did you buy Hebert’s theory that the shooting told us that was where James Ballantine was killed?”

“No. The only thing this told me is that I have to get the windshield replaced. And I feel stupid. It never occurred to me that somebody would decide to follow us today.”

“Well no,” said Ronnie. “We’re supposed to be following them. A fox doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if he’s being stalked by chickens.”