"We're dealing with the Baja Judicial Police so nothing is for sure until I get down there, but they found him washed up on the beach in a place called Playa Grande. Down on the coast. Shot himself in the heart. A boy who takes care of horses on the beach found him. That was two days ago. We just got the news."
McCaleb looked around. He saw a man in a white shirt and tie loitering near the gate to the gangway. Her partner, he assumed.
"Are they sure it was him?"
"They say so. The description is close. Plus they tracked him back to a trailer off the beach. They found computers, photos, all kinds of stuff. Looks like our guy. Plus he left a good-bye note on the computer screen."
"What did he say?"
"Well, this is all secondhand, but essentially he took responsibility for his actions and said he deserved to die for them. It was short and sweet."
"They find a weapon?"
"Not yet but they're sweeping the beach with metal detectors today. If they find it, it will probably be our HK P7. The bullet taken during the autopsy was a Federal FMJ. We'll see if we can borrow it for comparison to our cases up here."
McCaleb nodded.
"So how are they playing it out?"
"Pretty simple. The guy knows we're on to him, gets an attack of remorse, writes his note and goes down to the beach, where he puts one in his heart. The tide took him into the rocks there and the body got hung up. That's why it wasn't carried out to sea. We're going down to have a look at things. And to get prints. Probably won't get gunshot residue because the body was in the water. But one thing's for sure, were not going to close it unless we're absolutely sure it was Crimmins."
"Yeah, that's a good idea."
"I just want to make sure because it just didn't seem like it was heading toward a suicide, know what I mean?"
She was looking at him intently.
"Well . . . you never know."
She nodded and for the first time she looked away from him. She checked on her partner, who was watching them from a distance that put him well out of earshot.
"How was Vegas, Terry?"
He sat down on the gunwale and put the wrench he had been working with down next to him.
"Uh . . . well, I didn't really go anywhere. I decided that if I didn't get this thing running, it might never happen. I turned off the phone and just worked on the boat. I think it's finally ready to go."
"Good. I hope you catch a lot of fish."
"I will. You come over some day, I'll take you out to catch a marlin."
"I might take you up on that."
She nodded and took another look around the marina.
"Well, I guess I better go. It's a long drive down there and we're getting a late start."
"Happy hunting."
"Thanks."
She made a move to go but then hesitated and looked back at him.
"I saw your Cherokee up there in the lot. You ought to get it washed, Terry. There's an awful lot of dust on it."
Their eyes held each other's for a long moment then, the silent transmission clear.
"I'll do that," McCaleb finally said. "Thanks."
47
THE FOLLOWING SEA was cutting south at trolling speed across the low swells toward Catalina. Up on the bridge, McCaleb stood braced against the wheel. He had the forward wind curtain down and the chill air coming up off the surface hit him fully, hardening his skin beneath his clothes. Ahead in the mist the island rose like a huge rock cathedral on the horizon. The outbuildings and some of the taller boats of Avalon were coming into view. He saw the circular terra-cotta roof of the casino, the town's signature structure, clearly now.
He turned to look astern. The mainland was out of sight, discernible only by the haze of smog that hung over it like a sign warning Do Not Come Here! He was happy to be free of it.
He thought about Crimmins for a moment. He had no regrets about the way he had left things in Mexico. There would be no questions about his motives and choices now. But he was protecting more than himself. Graciela and Raymond had spent thirty-six hours with Crimmins. Though he had not physically harmed them, they still needed private time to heal, to put the ordeal behind them. McCaleb couldn't see how bringing more cops and questions into their lives could help with that. Graciela had agreed.
From the bridge he looked down into the cockpit and secretly watched the two of them. Raymond was in the fighting chair, his small hands grasping the trolling set. Graciela stood next to him, holding the chair for support. If McCaleb could, he would have willed a big black marlin onto the line for the boy. But he wasn't worried. There would be plenty of time to catch fish.
Graciela seemed to sense his gaze and she looked up at him. They shared a smile of intimacy. McCaleb could feel his heart seize when she smiled at him that way. It made him so happy that it hurt.
The boat trip was a test. Not only for the boat but for the two of them. That was what she had called it. A test to see if they could overcome the thing between them, the painful knowledge of what had happened and what he had done, of why he was here and others were not. Especially Gloria. They would see if they could put that behind them, too, or at least to the side, to be taken out and looked at only when needed.
It was all McCaleb could hope for. It was all he wanted, just the chance. The fact that it was now in his grasp made his faith in her feel requited, fulfilled. For the first time in a long time he was feeling as though there was purpose.
He looked forward again and checked the boat's course. He could see the bell house up on the hill and next to it the roof of the home where the writer and sportsman Zane Grey had lived. It was a beautiful town and he couldn't wait to be back and to show it to them.
He stole another glance down into the stern. Graciela's hair was tied back against the wind and he studied the lovely lines of the nape of her neck. He had been feeling something almost like faith lately and was confused by where it would lead him now. Confused but not concerned. He knew it was of no real matter. His faith was in Graciela Rivers. He had no doubt as he gazed down at her that he was looking at the rock upon which he would make his stand.
Acknowledgments
Blood Work is a work of fiction but it was inspired by conversations with my friend Terry Hansen, who received a heart transplant on Valentine's Day 1993. I thank him for his openness in discussing the emotional and physical changes such an event brought to his life.
I would also like to thank all those who offered their advice and expertise to me during the writing of this novel. Any mistakes in these pages are my own. Particularly, I would like to thank Linda and Callie for putting up with me; William Gaida, LAPD-retired, for teaching me the art of hypnotic interrogation; and Jim Carter for showing me around boats and Cabrillo Marina. Also, thanks go to Gene Riehl, FBI-retired, Scott Anderson, computer czar, Larry Sulkis, first gunner, and Scott Eyman, the writing guru who helped talk me off the ledge after I spiked 240 pages-on purpose!--and had to start again.
The book and the author were benefited immensely by the thoughts of those who read it along the way. They include Mary Connelly Lavelle, Susan Connelly and Jane Connelly Davis, Joel Gotler, Brian Lipson, Philip Spitzer, Ed Thomas, Bill Gerber, Melissa Rooker and Clint Eastwood. (Special thanks to Joel for the harmonica riffs.) My editor, Michael Pietsch, did his usual superb job in taking a massive manuscript and making smooth sense of it.
Lastly, once again thanks to the booksellers who help me tell my stories.
-Michael Connelly Los Angeles MICHAEL CONNELLY is the national bestselling author of City of Bones ,A Darkness More than Night ,Void Moon ,Angels Flight ,Blood Work , and The Poet . The winner of an Edgar Award, a Nero Wolfe prize, a Macavity Award, and an Anthony Award, he lives in Tampa, Florida.
For more information, contactwww.michaelconnelly.com .
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