Blood Work (1998)

by Michael Connelly

  The frame was empty for a few moments and then the top of the gray-haired counterman's head came into view in the lower left corner as he leaned over the cash register.

  "That's Chan Ho Kang, the owner," Arrango said, punching the screen with a finger and leaving a smudge of doughnut grease. "He's spending his last few seconds on the planet here."

  Kang had the cash drawer open. He broke a roll of quarters against the corner of the counter case and then dumped them into the appropriate section of the drawer. Just as he shoved it closed, a woman entered the frame. A customer. McCaleb recognized her instantly from the photo Graciela Rivers had showed him on the boat.

  Gloria Torres smiled as she approached the counter and placed two Hershey's candy bars down on the glass. She then pulled her purse up, opened it and took out her wallet as Mr. Kang punched keys on the register.

  Gloria looked up, money in hand, when suddenly another figure entered the frame. It was a man with a black ski mask covering his face and wearing what looked like a black jumpsuit. He moved up behind Gloria unnoticed. She was still smiling. McCaleb looked at the time counter, saw it said 22:41:39 and then looked back at what was happening in the store. It gave him a strange feeling to watch the action take place in this surreal black-and-white silence. From behind, the man in the ski mask put his right hand on Gloria's right shoulder and in one continuous move of the left hand put the muzzle of a handgun against her left temple. Without hesitation he pulled the trigger.

  "Badda-BING!" Arrango said.

  McCaleb felt his chest clench like a fist as he watched the bullet tear into Gloria's skull, a horrifying mist of blood jettisoning from the entry and exit wounds on either side of her head.

  "Never knew what hit her," Walters said quietly.

  Gloria jerked forward onto the counter and then bounced backward, collapsing into the shooter as he brought his right arm up around her and across her chest. Stepping backward, Gloria in front of him as a shield, he raised his left hand again and fired a shot at Mr. Kang, striking him somewhere in the body. The store owner bounced off the wall behind him and then forward, his upper body crashing down over the counter and cracking the glass. His arms flung out across the counter and his hands grappled for a hold like a man going over a cliff. Finally, he let go, his body flopping to the floor behind the counter.

  The shooter let Gloria's body slide to the ground and her upper body fell outside the view of the video frame. Only her hand, as if reaching across the floor, and legs stayed in the picture. The shooter moved toward the counter, quickly leaning over and looking down at Mr. Kang on the floor. Kang was reaching into a shelf below the counter, frantically pulling out stacks of brown bags. The shooter just watched him, until finally Kang's arm came out, a black revolver in his hand. The man in the ski mask dispassionately shot Kang in the face before he ever got the chance to raise his gun.

  Leaning further over the counter, his feet in the air, the shooter grabbed one of the bullet shells that had ejected and fallen next to Kang's arm. He then straightened up, reached over and took the bills from the open cash register drawer. He looked up at the camera. Despite the mask, it was clear the man winked and said something to the camera, then quickly left the frame to the left.

  "He's picking up the other two shells," Walters said.

  "No sound on the camera, right?" McCaleb said.

  "Right," Walters said. "Whatever he said there, he said to himself."

  "Only one camera in the store?"

  "Only one. Kang was cheap. That's what we were told."

  As they continued to watch, the shooter made one more pass through the corner of the screen on his way out.

  McCaleb stared blankly at the television, stunned by the harshness of the violence, despite his experience. Two lives spent for the contents of a cash drawer.

  "You ain't gonna see that on America’s Favorite Home Videos, " Arrango said.

  McCaleb had dealt with cops like Arrango for years. They acted as though nothing ever got to them. They could look at the worst crime scenes and find the joke. It was part of the survival instinct. Act and talk as if it means nothing to you and you've got a shield. You won't get hurt.

  "Can I see it again," McCaleb said. "Can you slow it down this time?"

  "Wait a minute," Walters said. "It's not over."

  "What?"

  "The Good Samuel comes in just about now."

  He said it with a Hispanic pronunciation. Sam-well.

  "The Good Samuel?"

  "Good Samaritan. Mexican guy comes in the store, finds them and tries to help. He kept the woman alive but there was nothing he could do for Kang. Then he goes out to the pay phone out front and makes-there he is."

  McCaleb looked back at the screen. The timeline now read 22:42:55 and a dark-haired, dark-complected man in jeans and a T-shirt had entered the picture. He first hesitated on the right side of the screen, apparently looking at Gloria Torres, and then went to the counter and looked over it. Kang's body lay on the floor in a lake of blood. There were wide, ugly bullet wounds in his chest and face. His eyes were open and still. He was obviously dead. The Good Samaritan returned to Gloria. He knelt on the floor and apparently hunched over her upper body, which was off-screen. But almost immediately he was up again and out of the picture.

  "He went down the aisles looking for bandages," Arrango said. "He actually wrapped her head with masking tape and a Kotex. A supersize."

  The Good Samaritan returned and went to work on Gloria, although all of this was off-screen.

  "The camera never picked up a great shot of him," Arrango said. "And he didn't stick around. After he made the call to nine one one out front, he split."

  "He never came in later?"

  "Nope. We went on the TV news with it. You know, asking for him to come forward because he might've seen something that would help the investigation. But nothing. This guy went up in smoke."

  "Weird."

  On the screen the man stood up, his back still to the camera. As he was moving out of the frame, he glanced to his left and a brief profile of his face was visible. He had a dark mustache. He then disappeared from view.

  "He now calls the cops?" McCaleb asked.

  "Nine one one," Walters said. "He said 'ambulance' and they put him through to the Fire Department."

  "Why didn't the guy come in?"

  "We got a theory on that," Arrango said.

  "Care to share it?"

  "The voice on the nine one one tape had an accent," Walters said. "Latino. We figure the guy was an illegal. He didn't stick around because he was afraid if we talked to him, we'd find out and ship him back."

  McCaleb nodded. It was plausible, especially in L.A., where there were hundreds of thousands of illegals avoiding authorities.

  "We put out fliers in the Mexican neighborhoods and went on Channel Thirty-four," Walters continued. "Promised he wouldn't be deported if he'd just come in and tell us what he saw, but we got nothing. Happens a lot in those neighborhoods. Hell, the places they come from, they're more scared a' the cops than the bad guys."

  "Too bad," McCaleb said. "He was there so soon, he probably saw the shooter's car, maybe got the plate."

  "Maybe," Walters said. "But if he got the plate, he didn't bother giving it to us on the tape. He did give a halfass description of the car-'Black car, like a truck,' was how he described it. But he hung up before the girl could ask if he got a plate."

  "Can we watch it again?" McCaleb asked.

  "Sure, why not?" Arrango said.

  He rewound the tape and they silently watched it again, this time with Arrango using the slow motion button during the shooting. McCaleb's eyes stayed on the shooter for every frame that he was on film. Though the mask hid his expression, there were times that his eyes were clearly seen. Brutal eyes that showed nothing as he gunned down two people. Their color indiscernible because of the black-and-white tape.

  "Jesus," McCaleb said when it was over.

  Arrango ejected the tape
and turned off the equipment. He turned and looked at McCaleb.

  "So, tell us something," he said. "You're the expert. Help us out here."

  The challenge was clearly evident in his voice. Put up or shut up. They were back to the territorial thing.

  "I'd have to think about it, maybe watch the tape some more."

  "Figures," Arrango responded dismissively.

  "I'll tell you one thing," McCaleb said, looking only at Arrango. "This wasn't the first time."

  He pointed at the dead TV tube.

  "No hesitation, no panic, the quick in and out . . . the calm handling of the weapon and the kick, the presence of mind to pick up the brass. This guy's done this before. This isn't the first time. And probably not the last. Plus, he'd been in there before. He knew there was a camera-that's why he wore the mask. I mean, it's true that lots of places like that have cameras but he looked right up at this one. He knew where it was. That means he'd been in there before. He's either from the neighborhood or he came in earlier to case the place."

  Arrango smirked and Walters looked quickly from McCaleb to his partner. He was about to say something when Arrango held up his hand to silence him. McCaleb knew then that what he had just said had been accurate and that they already knew it.

  "What?" he asked. "How many others?"

  Arrango now held both hands up in a hands-off gesture.

  "That's it for now," he said. "We talk to the lieutenant and we let you know."

  "What is this?" McCaleb protested, finally losing his patience. "Why show me the tape and stop there? Give me a shot at this. I might help you. What have you got to lose?"

  "Oh, I'm sure you can help. But our hands are tied. Let us talk to the lieutenant and we'll get back to you."

  He signaled everybody out of the office. McCaleb thought for a moment about refusing to leave but dismissed it as a bad idea. He walked through the door, Arrango and Walters behind him.

  "When will I hear from you?"

  "As soon as we know what we can do for you," Arrango said. "Give me a number, we'll be in touch."

  6

  McCALEB STOOD OUTSIDE the station's lobby waiting for the cab to show. He was steaming about how he had allowed Arrango to play him. Guys like Arrango got off on holding something out to a person and then snatching it away. McCaleb had always known people like Arrango-on both sides of the law.

  But there was nothing he could have done about it. For now it was Arrango's show. McCaleb wasn't really expecting to hear from him again. He knew that he would have to call him for an answer. That was how the game was played. McCaleb decided he would give it until the next morning before he would call.

  When the cab got there, McCaleb got in the back behind the driver. It was a way of discouraging conversation. He checked the name on the dashboard license card and saw it was Russian and unpronounceable. He pulled the small notebook out of his bag and gave the driver the address for the Sherman Market in Canoga Park. They headed north on Reseda Boulevard

  and then west on Sherman Way

  until they came to the small market near the intersection of Winnetka Avenue

  .

  The cab pulled into the lot in front of the small store. The place was nondescript, unimpressive, its plate-glass windows plastered with brightly colored sale signs. It looked like a thousand other mini-markets in the city. Except someone had decided that this one was worth robbing and that it was worth killing two people in order to accomplish that goal. Before getting out, McCaleb studied the signs covering the windows. They blocked off a view of the interior. He knew that was probably the reason the shooter had chosen this store. Even if passing motorists glanced over, they wouldn't see what was going on inside.

  Finally, he opened the door and got out. He stepped to the driver's window and told the man to wait for him. As he went into the store, he heard the tinkling of a bell from above the door. The cash register counter depicted in the video was set up near the back wall directly across from the door. An old woman stood back behind the counter. She was staring at McCaleb and she looked scared. She was Asian. McCaleb realized who she might be.

  Looking around as if he had come in with a purpose other than to gawk, he saw the display racks full of candy and picked out a Hershey's bar. He stepped to the counter and placed it down, noticing that the glass top of the case was still cracked. The full realization that he was in the same spot where Glory Torres had stood and smiled at Mr. Kang then hit him. He looked up at the old woman with a pained expression on his face and nodded.

  "Anything else?"

  "No, just this."

  She rang it up and he paid her. He studied her hesitant movements. She knew he wasn't from the neighborhood or a regular customer. She still was not at ease. She probably never would be.

  When she gave him his change, McCaleb noticed that the watch she wore on her wrist had a wide, black rubber wristband and a large face. It was a man's watch and it dwarfed her tiny, seemingly fragile wrist. He had seen the watch before. It had been on Chan Ho Kang's wrist in the surveillance video. McCaleb remembered focusing on the watch as the video depicted the wounded Kang scrambling for purchase on the counter and then finally falling to the floor.

  "Are you Mrs. Kang?" McCaleb asked.

  She stopped what she was doing at the register and looked at him.

  "Yes. I know you?"

  "No. It's just . . . I heard about what happened here. To your husband. I'm sorry."

  She nodded.

  "Yes, thank you." Then, seemingly needing an explanation or salve for her wounds, she added, "The only way to keep evil out is to not unlock door. We can't do that. We must have business."

  Now McCaleb nodded. It was probably something her husband had told her when she worried about his operating a cash business in a violent city.

  He thanked her and left, the bell ringing overhead again as he went through the door. He got back in the cab and appraised the front of the market again. It made no sense to him. Why this place? He thought of the video. The shooter's hand grabbing the cash. He couldn't have gotten much. McCaleb wished he knew more about the crime, more of the details.

  The phone on the wall to the right of the store's windows caught his eye. It was the one the unidentified Good Samaritan had apparently used. He wondered if it had been processed for prints after they realized he wasn't coming forward. Probably not. By then it was too late. It was a long shot anyway.

  "Where to?" the driver said, his accent discernible in only two syllables.

  McCaleb leaned forward to give the man an address but hesitated. He drummed his fingers on the plastic backing of the front seat and thought for a moment.

  "Keep the meter running. I've got to make a couple calls first."

  He got out again and headed to the pay phone, once more taking his notebook out. He looked up a number and charged the call to his card. It was answered right away.

  "Times, Russell."

  "Did you say Times or Slimes ?"

  "Funny, who is this?"

  "Keisha, it's Terry McCaleb."

  "Hey, how're you doing, man?"

  "I'm fine. I wanted to thank you for that story. I should've called sooner. But it was nice."

  "Hey, you're cool. Nobody else ever calls to thank me for anything."

  "Well, I'm not that cool. I was also calling because I need a favor. You got your terminal on?"

  "You really know how to spoil a good thing. Yes, my terminal is on. What's up?"

  "Well, I'm looking for something but I'm not sure how to find it. You think you could do one of those key-word searches for me? I'm looking for stories that would be about a robber who shoots people."

  She laughed.

  "That's it?" she said. "You know how often people get shot up in robberies? This is L.A., you know."

  "Yeah, I know, that was stupid. Okay, how about adding in ski mask. And maybe only go back about eighteen months. Think that will narrow it?"

  "Maybe."

  He heard her
keyboard start clicking as she tapped into the newspaper's computerized library of story files. By using key words like robbery and ski mask and shooting she would be able to draw up all stories that had contained those words.

  "So what's going on, Terry? I thought you were retired."

  "I am."

  "Doesn't sound like it. This is like the old days. Are you doing some kind of investigation?"