Майкл Коннелли - Dark Sacred Night

Bosch had gotten a look inside the van during the traffic stop and had shared the cell phone photos he had taken. There had been nothing of an incriminating nature. Not that they would have expected it after nine years. But she had noticed that the parking enclosure at the rear of the mission house gave the van close access to the back door. If the van was backed in, a body could be transferred from it and into the house quickly with only a split-second exposure outside. Additionally, she was curious about the stand-alone garage on the other side of the parking apron. Both times she had seen the van, it had been in the driveway and not in the garage. Why wasn’t the garage used? What was in there that prevented the van from being parked inside?

Ballard’s instinct about John McMullen was that he wasn’t the guy. He had seemed sincere in his defense and his complaint during their confrontation early that morning. Detectives develop a sixth sense about character and often had to rely on these fleeting takes to judge people. She had shared her take on McMullen with Bosch as they drove away following the roust. Bosch didn’t disagree but said the preacher still needed to be cleared beyond a quick search of his van before they moved on.

Now she was sitting in her own van, looking at the Moonlight Mission and needing to get a look inside. She could wait and do it with Bosch but she had no idea when he would be available. She had sent him a text checking on his status but had gotten no reply.

Ballard’s rover was in its charging slot back at the station. She didn’t like the idea of going in alone and without that electronic link to the mother ship, but the option of waiting made her even more uncomfortable. Seeing the drowning man and being reminded of her father had put her on edge. She needed to crowd out those thoughts and knew that making this move would do it. Work was always the distraction. She could lose herself in the work.

She pulled her phone and called the inside line to the watch office. It was almost five and the PM watch shift was on. A lieutenant named Hannah Chavez picked up the call.

“It’s Renée Ballard. I’m following up on something from the late show and don’t have a rover with me. Just wanted to let you know I’m going to be code six at the Moonlight Mission at Selma and Cherokee. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, can you send a backup?”

“Roger that, Ballard. But while I got you, you handled the DB up in the hills the other night, right?”

“Yeah, that was me. It was accidental.”

“Right, what I heard. But we just got a B and E call from that location. The burglary table has checked out for the day and I was going to shelve it till tomorrow but now I’m thinking—”

“You might want me to handle it.”

“Read my mind, Ballard.”

“Not really, but I’ll cruise over after I clear the mission.”

“I’ll tell my guys to hang till you get there.”

“How’d we get the call?”

“The family had arranged for some bio cleaners to get in there after the death. They apparently found the place ransacked and called it in.”

“Roger that. Remember, back me up in an hour if I don’t hit you back.”

“Moonlight Mission — you got it.”

Ballard climbed out of the driver’s seat and into the back of her van. Last week’s dry cleaning was on hangers on an equipment hook. She changed into what she considered her third-string work outfit, a chocolate Van Heusen blazer with a chalk pinstripe over the usual white blouse and black slacks. She emerged from the back of the van, locked it, and headed down the street to the mission.

She just wanted to take a look around inside, get a sense of the place, and maybe brace McMullen again. The direct approach was called for. She walked in through the front gate and up the steps to the porch. A sign on the door said WELCOME, so she opened it and entered without knocking.

Ballard stepped into a wide entry area with arched passages to rooms to the right and left and a wide, winding staircase in front of her. She walked into the center and waited a moment, expecting McMullen or someone else to appear.

Nothing.

She looked through the archway to the right and saw that the room was lined with couches, with a single chair in the middle, where the facilitator of a group discussion might sit. She turned to check the other room. Banners with Bible quotations and images of Jesus hung side by side on the far wall. At the center of the room was what looked like a free-standing sink with a crucifix rising from the porcelain sill where a faucet was intended to be.

Ballard stepped into the room and looked into the sink. It was half filled with water. She looked up at the banners and realized that not all the images were of Jesus. At least two featured drawings of the man she had met that morning.

Ballard turned to go back into the entrance hall and almost walked into McMullen. She startled, stepped back, and then quickly recovered.

“Mr. McMullen,” she said. “You snuck up on me.”

“I did not,” McMullen said. “And in here I am Pastor McMullen.”

“Okay. Pastor McMullen.”

“Why are you here, Detective?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Ballard turned and gestured toward the sink.

“This is where you do your work,” she said.

“It’s not work,” he said. “This is where I save souls for Jesus Christ.”

“Well, where is everybody? The house seems empty.”

“Each night I seek a new flock. Anyone I bring in to feed and clothe must be on their own by this time. This is just a way station on the journey to salvation.”

“Right. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Follow me.”

McMullen turned and headed out of the room. His heels kicked up from under his robe and Ballard saw that he was barefoot. They went around the staircase and down a short hallway into a kitchen with a large eating space taken up by a long picnic table and benches. McMullen stepped into a side room that might have been a servant’s pantry when the house was originally built but now served as an office or perhaps a confessional. It was spartan, with a small table and folding chairs on either side of it. Prominent on the wall opposite the doorway was a paper calendar with a photo of the heavenly skies and a verse from the Bible printed on it.

“Please sit,” McMullen said.

He took one chair and Ballard sat opposite him, leaving her right hand down by her hip and her weapon.

She saw that the wall behind McMullen was lined with cork. Pinned to it was a collage of photos of young people wearing layers of sometimes ragged clothing. Many had dirty faces, some were missing teeth, some had drug-glazed eyes, and all of them comprised the homeless flock that McMullen brought to his baptismal font. The people on the wall were diverse in gender and ethnicity. They shared one thing: each smiled for the camera. Some of the photos were old and faded, others were covered by new shots pinned over them. There were first names and dates handwritten on the photos. Ballard assumed these were the dates of their acceptance of Jesus Christ.

“If you are here to talk me out of a complaint, then you can save your words,” he said. “I decided that charity would be more useful than anger.”

Ballard thought about Bosch’s saying that it would be suspicious if McMullen did not make a complaint.

“Thank you,” she said. “I was coming to apologize if we offended you. We had an incomplete description of the van we were looking for.”

“I understand,” McMullen said.

Ballard nodded at the wall behind him.

“Those are the people you’ve baptized?” she asked.

McMullen glanced behind him at the wall and smiled.

“Just some of them,” he said. “There are many more.”