"Sort of. I'm checking something for a friend and the LAPD's being the LAPD. And it's worse when you don't have a badge."
"What's it about?"
"It's not newsworthy yet, Keisha. If it turns out that way, you'll be the first I let know."
She blew out her breath in exasperation.
"I hate it when you guys do that," she protested. "I mean, why should I help you when you won't let me decide whether something's a story or not? I'm the newspaper reporter, not you."
"I know, I know. I guess what I'm saying is that l just want to keep this to myself until I see what is what. I'll tell you about it after that. I promise, first crack at it. It probably won't pan out, but I'll tell you one way or the other. Did you get anything?"
"Yes," she said in a mock pout. "Six hits in the last eighteen months."
"Six? What are they?"
"Six stories. I'll read you the headlines and you tell me if you think you want me to call up the stories."
"Okay."
"Okay, here goes. 'Two Shot in Robbery Attempt,' then we have 'Man Shot, Robbed at ATM.' After that we have 'Deputies Seek Help in ATM Shooting.' Let's see, the next three look like one related case. The headlines are 'Store Owner, Customer Shot in Robbery,' followed by 'Second Victim Dies; Was Times Employee'-oh, shit, I never heard about that. I'll have to read this one myself-and the last one is 'Police Seek Good Samaritan.' Those are the six."
McCaleb thought for a moment. Six stories, three different incidents.
"Could you pull up the first three and read them if they're not too long?"
"Why not."
He listened as her keyboard started clicking. His eyes wandered out past the cab to Sherman Way
. It was a four-lane street, busy even at night. He wondered if Arrango and Walters had been able to come up with any witnesses to the shooter's getaway, anybody besides the Good Samaritan.
McCaleb's eyes moved across the street and in the parking lot of a strip mall he saw a man sitting in a car. The man raised a newspaper just as McCaleb noticed this and his face disappeared. McCaleb checked the car. It was an old beater, foreign make, which dissuaded him from the possibility that maybe Arrango had put a quick tail on him. He dismissed it as Keisha started reading the newspaper story on her computer screen.
"Okay, the first one ran on October eighth last year. It's just a short. 'A husband and wife were shot and wounded Thursday by a would-be robber who was then wrestled to the ground and captured by a group of passersby, Inglewood police said Thursday. The couple were walking along Manchester Boulevard
at eleven when a man wearing a ski mask approached and-' "
"The guy was captured?"
"That's what it says."
"Okay, skip that one. I'm looking for unsolves, I think."
"Okay, the next story ran Friday, January twenty-fourth. Headline is 'Man Shot, Robbed at ATM.' No byline. It's another short. 'A Lancaster man who was withdrawing cash from an automatic teller machine was fatally shot Wednesday night in what Los Angeles County sheriff's deputies called a senseless killing. James Cordell, thirty, was shot once in the head by an unknown assailant who then took the three hundred dollars he had just withdrawn from the machine. The shooting took place at approximately ten P.M. at a Regional State Bank branch in the eighteen-hundred block of Lancaster Road
. Sheriff's detective Jaye Winston said a portion of the shooting was captured on the ATM security camera but not enough to identify the gunman. The one glimpse of the gunman on the camera's tape showed he was wearing a dark knit ski mask over his head. However, Winston said that the tape revealed that there was no confrontation or refusal on Cordell's part to turn over the money. "It was absolutely cold-blooded," Winston said. "This guy just walked up, shot the victim and took the money. It was very cold and brutal. This guy didn't care. He just wanted the money." Cordell collapsed in front of the well-lighted machine but his body was not found until another customer came approximately fifteen minutes later. Paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene.' Okay, that's that one. You ready for the next?"
"I'm ready."
McCaleb had been jotting down some of the details from the story into his notebook. He underlined the name Winston three times. He knew Jaye Winston. He thought Winston would be willing to help him-more so than Arrango and Walters had been. Jaye Winston was not a hard tango. McCaleb felt he had finally caught a break.
Keisha Russell started reading the next story.
"Okay, same thing. No byline. It's short and it ran two days later. 'Sheriff's deputies said there were no suspects in the fatal shooting this week of a Lancaster man who was withdrawing money from an automatic teller machine. Detective Jaye Winston said the department wished to speak with any motorists or passersby who were in the area of the eighteen-hundred block of Lancaster Road on Wednesday night and may have seen the assailant before or after the ten-twenty shooting. James Cordell, thirty, was shot once in the head by a robber who wore a ski mask. He died at the scene of the robbery. Three hundred dollars was taken during the robbery. Though part of the incident was captured by the Regional State Bank's security camera, detectives were unable to identify the suspect because of the mask he wore. "He had to have had it off at one point," Winston said of the mask. "He didn't just walk or drive down the street with a mask on. People had to have seen this guy and we want to talk to those people." ' Okay, that's the end."
McCaleb hadn't taken any notes from the second story. But he was thinking about what Keisha had read and didn't respond.
"Terry, you still there?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
"Any of it help?"
"I think so. Maybe."
"And you still won't tell me what it's about?"
"Not yet, Keisha, but thanks. You'll be the first to know."
He hung up and pulled the business card Arrango had given him out of his shirt pocket. He decided not to wait for Arrango or for the next day. He had a lead he could follow now, whether or not the LAPD cooperated with him. While he was waiting for the call to be answered, he looked across the street. The car with the man reading the newspaper was gone.
The phone was picked up after six rings and he was eventually transferred to Arrango. McCaleb asked if Buskirk was back yet.
"Bad news, amigo," Arrango said. "The lieutenant's back all right. But he wants to hold off on turning our book over to you."
"Yeah, how come?" McCaleb asked, trying to disguise his annoyance.
"Well, I didn't really ask but I think he was pissed that you didn't come in to see him first. I told you that. You should've followed line of command."
"That was kind of hard to do, being that he wasn't there this morning. And I told you, I did ask for him first. Did you tell him that?"
"Yeah, I told him. I think he was in a bad mood, coming from Valley bureau. He probably got his ass chewed about something so then he chewed mine. That's how it goes sometimes. Right down the food chain. Anyway, look, you're lucky. We showed you the whole thing on tape. You got a good start there. We shouldn't have done that for you."
"Some start. You know, it's amazing that anything ever gets solved with all the bureaucratic bullshit that goes on. I thought the FBI was unique. We used to call it the Federal Bureau of Inertia. But I guess it's the same all around."
"Hey, look, we don't need your shit. We have a whole plate full of it here. My boss seems to think I invited you in here and now he's pissed at me. I don't need this. If you want to go away mad, that's your problem. But just go away."
"I'm gone, Arrango. You won't hear from me until I have your shooter. I'll bring him in for you."
McCaleb knew it was bullshit grandstanding as soon as he said it. But ever since February ninth he had increasingly found that he had zero tolerance for fools.
Arrango laughed sarcastically in response and said, "Yeah, right. I'll be waiting for you."
He hung up.
7
McCALEB HELD UP a finger to the cab driver and made another cal
l. He first thought about Jaye Winston but decided to wait. Instead he called Graciela Rivers at the number she had given him for the nursing station in the emergency room of Holy Cross Medical Center. She agreed to meet him for an early lunch, even though he explained that he hadn't accomplished much. He told her to look for him in the emergency room waiting room at eleven-thirty.
The hospital was in a part of the Valley called Mission Hills. On the way there, McCaleb looked out the window at the passing scenery. It was mostly strip shopping centers and gas stations. The driver was making his way toward the 405 so that he could head north.
McCaleb's knowledge of the Valley had come only through cases. There had been many, most of them falling under his review only on paper and photo prints and videotape from the body dumps along the freeway embankments or the hillsides fringing the northern flats. The Code Killer had hit four times in the Valley before he disappeared like the morning marine layer.
"What are you, police?"
McCaleb looked away from the window and over the seat at the rearview mirror. The driver's eyes were on him.
"What?"
"Are you policeman or something?"
McCaleb shook his head.
"No, I'm no one. "
He looked back out the window as the cab labored up a freeway on-ramp. They passed a woman who was holding a sign asking for money. Another victim waiting to be victimized again.
He sat in the waiting room on a plastic chair across from an injured woman and her husband. The woman had internal pain and kept her arms folded across her midsection. She was hunched over, protecting the hurt. Her husband was being attentive, repeatedly asking how she felt and going to the intake window to ask when she would be taken back for examination. But twice McCaleb heard him quietly ask her, "What are you going to tell them?"
And each time the woman turned her face away.
At quarter to twelve Graciela Rivers came through the double doors of the ER ward. She suggested that they just go to the hospital cafeteria because she had only an hour. McCaleb didn't mind because his taste for food had still not come back since the transplant. Eating at the hospital would be no different to him than eating at Jozu on Melrose. Most days he didn't care what he ate and sometimes he forgot about meals until a headache reminded him that he needed to refuel.
The cafeteria was almost empty. They took their trays to a table next to a window, which looked out on a huge green lawn surrounding a large white cross.
"This is my one chance to look at daylight," Graciela said. "Back in the ER rooms there are no windows. So I always try to get a window."
McCaleb nodded that he understood.
"Way back when I worked in Quantico, our offices were below ground. The basement. No windows, always damp, freezing in the winter even with the heat on. I never saw the sun. It wears on you after a while."
"Is that why you moved out here?"
"No. Other reasons. But I did figure I'd get a window. I was wrong. They stuck me in a storage closet at the FO. Seventeen floors up but no windows. I think that's why I live on the boat now. I like having the sky close by."
"What's the FO?"
"Sorry. Field office. It was in Westwood. In the big federal building near the veterans cemetery."
She nodded.
"So, did you really grow up on Catalina like the paper said?"
"Until I was sixteen," he said. "Then I lived with my mother in Chicago . . . It's funny, I spent all the time I was growing up on that island just wanting to get off it. Now I'm just trying to get back there."
"What will you do there?"
"I don't know. I've got a mooring over there my father left me. Maybe I won't do anything. Maybe I'll just drop a line and sit in the sun with a beer in my hand."
He smiled and she smiled back.
"If you already have a mooring, why can't you go now?"
"The boat's not ready. Neither am I yet."
She nodded.
"It was your father's boat?"
Another detail from the newspaper. He had obviously said too much about himself to Keisha Russell. He didn't like people knowing so much about him so easily.
"He lived on it over there. When he died, it came to me. I let it sit in dry dock for years. Now it needs a lot of work."
"Did he name it or was that you?"
"His name."
She frowned and squinted her eyes as if something was sour.
"Why did he call it The Following Sea instead of just Following Sea ? It doesn't make sense with The in front of Following Sea. "
"No, it makes sense. It doesn't refer to the act of following behind the sea. There is something known as the following sea, or a following sea."
"Oh. What is it?"
"A sea is a wave. You know, how you hear on surf reports that the seas are two to four feet or whatever?"
"Right."
"Okay, well a following sea is the one you have to watch out for. It's the one that comes up behind a vessel. You don't see it coming. It hits you from behind and swamps you. Sinks you. The rule is that if you're running in following seas, you've just got to be moving faster than they are. Stay ahead of them. He named the boat that because it was like a reminder. You know, always watch over your shoulder. It was something he always said to me when I was growing up. Even when I went over town."
"Over town?"
"When I left the island. He told me always to watch out for the following sea, even on land."
She smiled.
"Now that I know the story, I like the name. Do you miss him?"
He nodded but offered nothing else. The conversation drifted away and they began to eat their sandwiches. McCaleb hadn't planned on the meeting being about him. After a few bites he started filling her in on the morning's lack of solid accomplishment. He didn't tell her about watching her sister being murdered on the videotape but he told her about his hunch that the Torres-Kang slayings were connected to at least one other incident. He told her how he was further guessing that that other incident might be the ATM robbery and shooting recounted in the stories Keisha Russell had read him.
"What will you do next?" she asked when he was done.
"Take a nap."
She looked at him curiously.
"I'm beat," he said. "I haven't been running around and doing as much thinking as this for a long time. I'm going back to my boat and resting up. Tomorrow I'll start again."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not," he said with a smile. "You were looking for somebody with a reason to get involved in this. I've got the reason and I'm involved, but I've got to take it slow at first. You being a nurse, I hope you understand."
"I do. I don't want you to hurt yourself. That would make Glory's dying even more . . ."
"I understand."
They were silent for a few moments before he picked up the conversation again.
"Your take on the LAPD was right on. I think they're in a holding pattern, waiting for something to happen-probably for this guy to hit again. They're definitely not working it. It's a cold case until something happens to warm it up."
She shook her head.
"They're not working it but they don't want you to have a try at it. That makes a lot of sense."
"It's a territorial thing. It's the way the game is played."
"It's not a game."
"I know."
He wished he had chosen a better word.
"Then what can you do?"
"Well, in the morning, when I'm fresh, I'll try the Sheriff's Department on this other case, the one I think is connected. I know the lead on it. Jaye Winston. We worked a case once a long time ago. It went well and I'm hoping that will get me in the door. At least further in than I got with the L.A. people."
She nodded but she wasn't all that good at masking her disappointment.
"Graciela," he said, "I don't know if you were expecting somebody to just come in and solve this like turning a key in a lock but it's not realistic to believe that. T
hat's movies. This is real. In all my years in the bureau, most of the cases turned on some little detail, some little thing that was missed or didn't seem important at first. But then it comes back around to being the key to the whole thing. It just takes time to get there sometimes, to find that little detail."
"I know. I know. It just frustrates me that more wasn't done sooner."
"Yes, when the . . ."
He was going to say when the blood was fresh.
"What?"
"Nothing. It's just that with most cases the more time goes by, the harder it gets."
Blood Work (1998) Page 6