Майкл Коннелли - Dark Sacred Night

“Let’s do it,” he said.

Ten minutes later, after discussing a strategy, they were following the van back up Highland. They had seen a white man wearing what looked like a full-length bathrobe come out of Yum Yum with two twelve-packs of doughnuts and then hop behind the wheel of the van. As they crossed Sunset, Ballard put on the grille lights of the detective car and straddled the lane so the van’s driver could see her in his sideview. She signaled him over and he complied, pulling to the curb at the corner of Highland and Selma.

Ballard and Bosch both got out and approached on either side of the van. Ballard flipped her jacket back and kept her hand on her holstered gun as she approached the driver-side door. The window came down as she got there. She noticed that on the door just below the window was written JOHN 3:16. She guessed that McMullen had named himself after a Bible verse.

“Good morning,” she said. “How are you today, sir?”

“Uh, I’m fine,” he said. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

“It’s Detective, actually. Can I get some identification from you, sir?”

The man already had his driver’s license in his hand. Ballard checked it, her eyes flicking from the ID to the man behind the wheel, wary of any quick move. McMullen had a beard and long hair with gray streaks that had infiltrated since the ID photo was taken.

The DOB on the license put him at forty-five years old. The address corresponded with the Moonlight Mission bungalow. She handed the driver’s license back.

“What brings you out on the street so early, sir?” Ballard asked.

“I went to get doughnuts for my people,” McMullen said. “How come you’re stopping me?”

“We got a report of a van that was being driven erratically. Suspected drunk driver. Have you been drinking, sir?”

“No, and I never drink. Alcohol is the work of the devil.”

“Do you mind stepping out of the van so we can make sure?”

McMullen noticed Bosch staring at him through the passenger-side window. He turned his head back and forth between him and Ballard.

“I told you I don’t drink,” he protested. “Haven’t had a drop in twenty-one years.”

“Then it should be pretty easy to show us you’re sober,” Ballard said.

McMullen gripped the steering wheel until Ballard could see the points of his knuckles turn white.

“All right,” he said. “But you’re wasting your time.”

He reached his hand down out of sight and Ballard gripped her gun, ready to go. She saw Bosch make a quick head shake, telling her everything was all right. Then she heard McMullen’s seatbelt come off. He opened the door and climbed out, then slammed it behind him. He was dressed the part of the missionary in sandals and a white tunic cinched at the waist by a braided rope. Over this he wore an ankle-length maroon robe with gold tassels on the sleeves.

“Is there anyone else in the van, sir?” Ballard asked.

“No,” McMullen said. “Why should there be?”

“Officer safety, sir. My partner’s going to check to make sure. Are you okay with that?”

“Whatever. The lock on the side door’s broken. He can open it.”

“Okay, sir, please step to the back of your vehicle, where it’s safer.”

Ballard nodded to Bosch, who was now standing at the front of the van. She followed McMullen to the rear and started putting him through old-school field sobriety testing. She began with the walk and turn so she could glance back while McMullen was walking a straight line away from her. She saw Bosch leaning into the van through the rear side door. It looked like nothing was amiss.

McMullen completed the maneuver without issue.

“I told you,” he said.

“Yes, you did, sir,” Ballard said. “I want you now to face me and raise your right leg and hold it up, standing only on your left foot. Do you understand? I then want you to count to ten while keeping your foot up.”

“Not a problem.”

McMullen raised his leg and stared at Ballard.

“Who are your people?” Ballard asked.

“What do you mean?” McMullen said.

“You said you just got doughnuts for your people.”

“The Moonlight Mission. I have a flock.”

“So you’re a preacher. You can put your foot down.”

“Of sorts. I just try to lead people to the Word of God.”

“And they go willingly? Raise your other foot now and hold it.”

“Of course they do. Or they can leave. I don’t force anybody to do anything.”

“You provide beds for people, or is it just prayer services?”

“We have beds. People can stay temporarily. Once they find the Word, they want to get off the streets and make something of their lives. We’ve saved many. We’ve baptized many.”

While McMullen was speaking, Ballard heard Bosch slide the van’s door closed. His footsteps came up behind her.

“Young girls?” Bosch said over her shoulder. “They part of your flock?”

McMullen lowered his foot to the ground.

“What is this?” he said. “Why’d you pull me over?”

“Because we’re looking for a girl who went missing last night,” Ballard said. “A witness said she got pulled into a van.”

“Not my van,” McMullen said. “It’s been parked all night behind a gate. You saw. There’s nothing in there.”

“Not now,” Bosch said.

“How dare you!” McMullen fired back. “How fucking dare you to try to impugn the good work of the mission! I am in the business of saving souls, not taking them. I’ve been going down these streets for twenty years and no one has ever accused me of anything improper. Anything!”

As McMullen spoke, tears filled his eyes and his voice grew tight and high.

“Okay, okay, sir,” Ballard said. “You have to understand, we need to ask these questions. When a young girl disappears, we have to do what we need to do and sometimes we step on toes. You can go now, Mr. McMullen. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“I want your names,” McMullen demanded.

Ballard looked at Bosch. They had intentionally not identified themselves when they had first stopped McMullen.

“Ballard and Bosch,” she said.

“I’ll remember that,” McMullen said.

“Good,” Bosch said.

McMullen climbed back into the van as Ballard and Bosch watched. He roared the engine and took a sharp turn onto Selma.

“What did you see?” Ballard asked.

“A couple bench seats and not much else,” Bosch said. “I took some photos I’ll show you in the car.”

“You mean no baptismal font full of bleach?” Ballard asked.

“Not quite.”

“So what do you think?”

“Doesn’t mean anything. I’m still interested. What do you think?”

“Something seems off but I don’t know. It will be interesting to see if he files a complaint.”

“If he’s our guy, he doesn’t file the complaint, because he won’t want the follow-up.”

They walked back to Ballard’s car and got in. Ballard was silent as she pulled away from the curb. She was wondering if joining forces with Bosch had been a career-threatening mistake.

The search team was waiting outside Pacoima Tire & Muffler when the current owner opened up for a day of business. To say he was surprised by the police presence that greeted him was an understatement. After lifting the garage door, he held his arms aloft and stared wide-eyed at the vehicles amassed in front of him. Bosch was the first out of his car and the first to get to him.

“Mr. Cardinale?” he said. “You can put your hands down. I’m Detective Bosch with the San Fernando Police Department. We have a search warrant for these premises.”

“What?” Cardinale said. “What are you talking about?”