morning?”
While Lauren Lawton had told him she had gone into her home late in the afternoon, it seemed logical to assume her visitor had waited until cover of darkness to leave the photograph on her windshield.
Ballencoa blinked the big sloe eyes at him. “I was in my darkroom, working. Do you have somebody telling you I was someplace else?”
“Do you know a woman named Lauren Lawton?”
“I’m sure you already know that I do.”
“Have you seen her recently?”
“The last I knew, the Lawtons lived in Santa Barbara.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Mendez said. “Have you seen her recently?”
“No,” Ballencoa said, “and I hope never to see her again. I had to take out a restraining order on her in Santa Barbara. She’s not mentally stable. Her harassment ruined my business. I had to move away.”
“Her harassment ruined your business?” Mendez said. “You don’t think your business suffered because you were suspected of abducting a sixteen-year-old girl?”
“Suspected is not convicted,” Ballencoa said evenly. “They had no evidence I did anything to that girl.”
Hicks and Mendez exchanged a glance, both of them very aware that Ballencoa hadn’t denied doing anything to Leslie Lawton. He had denied the existence of evidence to prove it. The hackles went up on the back of Mendez’s neck.
“Lauren Lawton and the Santa Barbara Police Department waged a smear campaign against me in the press,” Ballencoa said.
The muscles flexed in Mendez’s wide jaw. His eyes were flat as a shark’s. “Poor you. Let me tell you something here, Mr. Ballencoa. We’re very aware of your record and your history. We don’t like predators in our community.”
“Are you threatening me, detective?”
“I’m telling you how it is. If we get one complaint that you’re looking too long at some young lady or that you’re hanging around where you shouldn’t be, we’ll be all over you like stink on shit.”
Ballencoa didn’t so much as blink. “I’m a taxpaying, law-abiding citizen, detective. Unless I break a law, you don’t have any right to harass me or follow me or come into my home. And neither does anyone else.”
On that note, Ballencoa shut the door in their faces and they heard the dead bolt slide home.
“I don’t think he likes us,” Hicks said.
Mendez shrugged. “I thought I was charming. Didn’t you think I was charming?”
“Like a hammer between the eyes.”
“Oh well. I’ll try harder next time.”
“At least now we know he’s here,” Hicks said as they got back in their car.
“And he knows we’re here,” Mendez said as he started the engine.
But even if his threat kept Roland Ballencoa in line—which he doubted it would—he wasn’t going to be happy about the man’s presence in Oak Knoll. Something dangerous had come into their midst. They couldn’t turn a blind eye to it even if it was lying dormant. The threat would be there as long as Ballencoa was.
He took a right at the corner and took another right and another right, coming back onto Ballencoa’s block. He pulled in at the curb three houses down.
“Did you know he had taken out a restraining order on the Lawton woman back in SB?” Hicks asked, his gaze, like Mendez’s, focused down the block, waiting to see if Ballencoa would come out of his house.
“No. I knew he threatened to sue the PD.”
“There
“And Mrs. Lawton personally. What an asshole,” Mendez grumbled.
“Too bad that’s not against the law,” Hicks said.
“We’d have to build prisons in outer space.”
“He didn’t seem surprised to see us,” Hicks pointed out.
“No. And he didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned Lauren Lawton’s name, either. He’s coming out.”
Down the block, Ballencoa came out of his house with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder and disappeared into his garage.
“He knows she’s here,” Hicks said.
A brown Dodge panel van backed out of the garage and went down the street away from them. Mendez let him get a good distance ahead, then pulled out and followed him. It was tough to tail a car in a residential neighborhood. There wasn’t enough traffic for anonymity, though it picked up as they neared the college.
Preparations were already under way for the upcoming music festival. Visiting musicians began to flow into Oak Knoll several weeks in advance. Pre-festival workshops had begun. Small concerts in the local parks and churches would be starting soon, leading up to the headline events.
As they followed Ballencoa down Via Verde, Mendez kept one eye on the van and one on the busy sidewalks outside the boutiques and coffee shops. Girls, girls, girls. College girls shopping, talking, laughing with each other. They were blissfully oblivious to the man in the van trolling past them.
“Where the hell is he going?” Mendez wondered aloud as they continued past the college, through another neighborhood, past Oak Knoll Elementary, onto Oakwoods Parkway.
To the sheriff’s office.
26
“What the hell?” Mendez asked, watching Roland Ballencoa pull into the parking lot in front of the sheriff’s office.
“I don’t know,” Hicks said, “but I don’t have a good feeling about it.”
Mendez punched the gas and pulled into the same lot rather than going around to the employee parking. That same feeling Hicks had expressed twisted like a worm in his gut.
He pulled into a reserved spot, got out of the sedan, and started for the building with Hicks right behind him. Ballencoa stood waiting by the front desk. He didn’t look surprised to see them.
“What are you doing here?” Mendez asked. It was more of a demand than a question. His temper was rising along with his suspicions.
Ballencoa, on the other hand, appeared cool and unconcerned. “I’m here to file a complaint.”
“Against us?” Mendez said, gesturing to his partner and himself.
Ballencoa looked from one to the other as he weighed his words. Hicks stood back a few feet, looking grave but calm. Mendez knew that wasn’t how he was coming across. He was angry, and he didn’t do a good job of hiding it.
Finally, Ballencoa said, “I don’t have to answer your questions.”
Mendez turned away from him abruptly, his dark gaze falling hard on the receptionist behind the counter, a plump middle-aged blonde woman in a purple pantsuit. “Who’s coming out to get him?”
Before she could answer, Cal Dixon emerged from the back in his pressed-perfect uniform, his expression as fierce as an eagle’s. He looked first at Mendez, then Hicks, then turned last to Roland Ballencoa.
“Mr. Ballencoa,” he said, offering his hand. “Cal Dixon.”
Mendez watched them shake hands, thinking he would rather pick up a turd.
“Come this way,” Dixon said, turning back to the door he had come through. He shot a look back over his shoulder. “Detectives: you too.”
“I would rather speak to you in private, sheriff,” Ballencoa said as they went down a hall to a conference room.
Dixon pulled open the door and stood back. “As I understand it, your complaint has to do with detectives Hicks and Mendez,” he said curtly. “I would sooner have all parties involved present. Have a seat, Mr. Ballencoa.”
Ballencoa went to the far side of the table and sat down, putting his messenger bag on the table in front of him. Mendez stepped into the room and put his back against the wall beside the door, standing with his arms crossed over his chest like some bad-ass bouncer. Dixon would undoubtedly tell him to sit down, but he was so
