Blood Work

by Michael Connelly

  Buddy Lockridge was sleeping on the cockpit bench. McCaleb rousted him and he woke with a start.

  “What is-hey, Terror, you’re back, man.”

  “Yeah, I’m back.”

  “How’s my car, man?”

  “It’s still running. Listen, get up, I’ve got one more trip to make and I need you to drop me off.”

  Lockridge slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. He had been lying under a sleeping bag. He gathered it around him and rubbed his eyes.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s seven-thirty.”

  “Fuck, man.”

  “I know, but this will be the last time.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just need you to drop me the sheriff’s office so I can get my car. I need to go by a bank on the way.”

  “They’re not open this early.”

  “They’ll be open by the time we get out to Whittier.”

  “So if I’m driving you out to pick your car up, who is going to drive it back here?”

  “Me. Let’s go.”

  “But you said you aren’t supposed to be driving, man. Especially a car with an air bag.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Buddy.”

  They were on the way a half hour later. McCaleb brought a duffel bag with a change of clothes and everything else he would need for his trip. He also brought a thermos of coffee and two cups. He poured coffee and filled Buddy in on the case and all that had happened while they drove. Buddy asked questions for most of the drive.

  “I guess I’ll have to buy a paper tomorrow,” he said.

  “It will probably be on TV, too.”

  “Hey, is it going to be a book? Will I be in it?”

  “I don’t know. The story will probably hit the news today. I guess it depends on how big a story it is before anybody decides on a book.”

  “Do they pay you to use your name like that? In a book, I mean. Or like in a movie?”

  “I don’t know. I guess you could ask for something. You were an important part. You came up with that missing picture in Cordell’s car.”

  “That’s right, I did.”

  Lockridge seemed proud of his part and the prospect of possibly making some money from it.

  “And the gun. I found the gun that prick hid under the boat.”

  McCaleb frowned.

  “You know what, Buddy? If there’s ever a book or if any reporters or cops come around, I would like it a lot better if you never mentioned that gun. That would help me a lot.”

  Lockridge glanced over at him and then back at the road.

  “No problem, then. I won’t say a word.”

  “Good. Unless I tell you otherwise. And if anybody comes to me about a book, I’ll be sure to tell ’em to talk to you.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  It was after nine by the time they fought through all the traffic to Whittier. McCaleb had Lockridge stop by a Bank of America branch while he went in and wrote a check for $1,000, taking the cash in twenties and tens.

  A few minutes later the Taurus pulled into the Star Center parking lot. McCaleb counted out $250 and handed it to Lockridge.

  “What’s this for?”

  “That’s for letting me use the car and for the ride today. Also, I’m going to be away for a few days. Will you keep an eye on the boat for me?”

  “Will do, man. Where you going?”

  “Not sure yet. And I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “That’s okay. Two-fifty goes a long way.”

  “Remember that woman who visited me? The pretty one?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m hoping she’ll come by the boat looking for me. Watch for her.”

  “Okay. What do I do if she shows up?”

  McCaleb thought a moment.

  “Just tell her I’m still gone but that I was hoping she’d come by.”

  McCaleb opened the car door. Before getting out, he shook Lockridge’s hand and told him again that he had been a lot of help.

  “Okay, I’m out of here.”

  “Sure thing, man, have a good one.”

  “Oh, hey, know what? I’ll probably be doing a lot of driving. You mind if I borrow one of those harps you got?”

  “Take your pick.”

  He fished around in the door storage pocket and came out with three harmonicas. McCaleb picked the one he had been playing during the drive the other night along the coast highway.

  “That’s a good one. You start with the key of C.”

  “Thanks, Buddy.”

  “You sure took your sweet-ass time,” Winston said as McCaleb walked up to her desk. “I’ve been wondering where the hell you’ve been.”

  “I’ve been dicking around at the impound yard for an hour,” McCaleb responded. “I can’t believe you people. You take my car on a bullshit warrant and I have to pay towing and impound fees. A hundred and eighty bucks. There is no justice in this world, Jaye.”

  “Look, just be lucky they didn’t lose it and you got it back in one piece. Have a seat. I’m not quite ready.”

  “Then what’re you complaining about me being late for?”

  She didn’t answer. McCaleb took the chair at the side of her desk and watched as she went through a typed report, apparently proofreading and then initialing the bottom of each page.

  “Okay,” she said. “I was going to use one of the interview rooms. The tape’s already set up. Shall we?”

  “Wait a sec. What’s happened since last night?”

  “Oh, that’s right. You haven’t been around.”

  “You get any prints off the light tubes?”

  She broke into a smile and nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” McCaleb protested. “What did you get?”

  “Everything. Two palms, both thumbs, four fingers. We put it on the box and got a hit. Our boy is local. Name is Daniel Crimmins, thirty-two years old. And you remember that profile you did for the Code Killer task force? Well you were dead-on, McCaleb. A slam dunk.”

  McCaleb was beside himself with energy, though he outwardly tried to remain calm. The last pieces of the puzzle were dropping into place. He tried to recall the suspect’s name from the case files but drew a blank.

  “Tell me.”

  “He was an LAPD Academy washout. That was five years ago. As near as we can tell, since then he’s had a number of private security jobs. I don’t mean tin badge stuff. Computer stuff. He advertised on the Internet, had a web page, sent mailers to businesses. He basically sold computer security. We’re hearing that he sometimes got work by hacking into a company’s computer and then sending the CEO E-mail telling him how easy it was and why they should hire him to make their system hack-proof.”

  “BOPRA?”

  “You got it. We’ve got a team over there now but they called in a little while ago. There’s an executive who remembers getting E-mail from Crimmins last year. But he blew it off as a prank. He killed the message and never got another one. But it shows that Crimmins was inside BOPRA.”

  McCaleb nodded.

  “Anybody get his LAPD file yet?”

  “Yeah, Arrango. He’s being a prick with it, dealing it out on a need-to-know basis. But basically the guy lasted five months. Reason for his termination was-quote-failure to thrive in the collegial atmosphere of the academy. Translation: the guy was an introvert who would never last in a squad car. No partner would take him. So they washed him out. The problem for him was he was second generation. His old man retired up to Blue Heaven ten years ago. Uhlig had someone in the Idaho field office look dad up. He said as far as he knew, his son was currently on the LAPD. He didn’t know Danny boy had been a washout because Danny boy didn’t tell him. He says he hasn’t seen his son in something like five or six years but when they talk on the phone, the boy always has good war stories.”

  “Yeah, they’re just made up.”

  McCaleb saw that it all fit. The authority complex. Cri
mmins had transferred it from the father to the LAPD after he was washed out. The expulsion from the academy could have provided the psychic break that turned a harmless fantasy life into a deadly pastime. The murders were all on LAPD turf. He was showing the institution that deemed him unworthy just how smart, clever and worthy he was.

  It occurred to McCaleb that when he had profiled the Code Killer three years before, he had suggested that dismissed officers and academy washouts be questioned as a priority. As far as he knew, that had been done.

  “Wait. This guy should have been questioned back then. Failed law enforcement career was in the profile.”

  “He was questioned. That’s why Arrango is dicking around with the file. Somehow, Crimmins passed the test. He was interviewed by a team from the task force but he didn’t raise an eyebrow or warrant a second look. Still, it must’ve scared him. He was interviewed four weeks after the last Code killing. Maybe it’s the reason he stopped.”

  “Probably. Still, it’s not going to look very good when it comes out this guy was interviewed and skated.”

  “Too fucking bad. I say, let the chips fall. We’ve got the press conference scheduled for three o’clock.”

  McCaleb considered what she had said about the killing stopping after Crimmins had been interviewed. He felt a thrill of satisfaction that it might have been his directive to interview academy washouts that had halted the killings. While he was savoring the thought, Winston opened a file and took a color photo off a stack of them. She handed it to him. It showed Crimmins in his academy uniform. Clean cut, clean shaven, a thin face and hopeful eyes that seemed to betray his confidence. It was as if he knew when the photo was taken that he would not make it, that there would be no graduation photo.

  “So it looks like when he was Noone, there was not much of a disguise used,” he said. “The glasses and something inside his cheeks to make his face look fuller.”

  “Right. Probably because he knew he would have direct contact with cops and a full-on disguise would show.”

  “Can I keep this?”

  “Sure, we’ll be giving them out today.”

  “What’s next? You got addresses?”

  “Nothing good. The warehouse you already found was the only thing current. But there’s got to be another place. His web page was still operational even after we unplugged the warehouse. It means he’s got another computer somewhere. Running as we speak.”

  “Can’t they just trace the phone line in?”

  “He’s got an anonymous provider.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Anything going to or from the web page goes through this anonymous provider of Internet access. We can’t trace and we can’t crack open the provider because of First Amendment bullshit. Besides, the expert over at the bureau, Bob Clearmountain, told me guys like him now use microwaves instead of hardwire phone lines. Makes it harder to trace and locate.”

  The technology was beyond McCaleb. He changed the subject.

  “You going to ID him at the press conference?”

  “Think so. We’ll get the photo out, show the hypnotism video, see what it brings. By the way, Keisha Russell at the Times. Did you tip her off?”

  “I owed her the call. She helped me at the beginning of this thing. I left her a voice mail this morning. Thought I’d give her a head start on it. Sorry.”

  “No, that’s okay. I like her. I needed to talk to her anyway. Nevins told me what you said last night, about it probably being our guy who sent the letter that prompted the story about you in the Times. ”

  “Right. Did she keep the letter?”

  “No. She only remembered it was signed Bob something or other. It was probably him. He had this thing so wired.”

  McCaleb suddenly thought of something. Graciela had told him that she had not become aware of the Times story on him until a man who claimed he had worked with Glory called and told her of the story. She then went to the library to read it. McCaleb realized that the caller could have been Crimmins setting his plan into motion.

  “What is it?” Winston asked.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking.”

  He decided not to tell Winston his hunch yet. He would check it out himself. It would give him a reason to break his promise not to call Graciela. He could make it an official call.

  “So,” Winston said. “Where do you think he is?”

  “Crimmins?” He hesitated. “In the wind, I guess.”

  Winston studied his face a moment.

  “I thought you might have an idea.”

  He looked away from her and down at the desk.

  “Well, the wind doesn’t blow forever,” she said, letting it go. “He’s got to come down somewhere.”

  “Hope so.”

  They were silent then, finished with each other except for the formality of the statement he would have to tape.

  “It may be none of my business,” Winston said, “but how are you going to deal with this?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Well, if you ever need somebody to talk to…”

  He nodded his thanks.

  “Okay, then should we go get this over with?”

  An hour later McCaleb was alone in the interview room. He had told his story to Winston and she had left with the tape to get it transcribed. She had given him permission to use the phone that was on the table and told him he had the room for as long as he needed it.

  He composed his thoughts for a few moments and then punched in the number for the nursing station in the emergency room at Holy Cross. He asked for Graciela but the woman who answered said Graciela was not there.

  “Is she on break?”

  “No, she’s not here today.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  He hung up. He guessed that she had called in sick. He couldn’t blame her. Not with the news he had delivered the night before. He punched in her home number. But after five rings the call was picked up by an answering machine. After the beep he fumbled through the message he wanted to leave.

  “Uh, Graciela, it’s me, Terry, you there?”

  He waited a long moment and then continued.

  “Um, I just wanted… they told me you weren’t at work and I, uh, I wanted to say hello and there’s a couple of questions I need to ask you about things. Loose ends mostly… but it would help to-anyway, I’m gonna go and I’ll probably try to call you later on. Um, I’ll probably be on the road so you don’t have to worry about calling me back.”

  He wished he could erase the message and start over. He cursed to himself and hung up, then wondered if the curse had been recorded. He shook his head, got up and left the room.

  44

  IT TOOK HIM two days to find the picture that Daniel Crimmins as James Noone had drawn during the hypnosis session. McCaleb started at Rosarita Beach and then worked his way south. He found it between La Fonda and Ensenada on a remote stretch of the coast. Playa Grande was a small village on a two-tiered rock flow overlooking the sea. The village mostly consisted of a motel with six small detached bungalows, a pottery store, a small restaurant and market and a Pemex station. There was also a small stable for renting horses to ride down on the beach. The commercial core, if it was big enough to be called that, was at the edge of a cliff overlooking the beach. On the stepped bluff above it was a wide scattering of small houses and trailer homes.

  What made McCaleb stop was the stable. He remembered Crimmins describing horses on the beach. He got out of the Cherokee and walked down a steep trail cut through the rock outcroppings to the beach. The wide, white beach was a private enclave about a mile long and enclosed on each end by huge, jagged rock flows into the sea. Near the south end, McCaleb saw the rock overhang that Crimmins had described during the hypnosis session. McCaleb knew that the best and most convincing way to lie is to tell as much truth as possible. So he had taken his subject’s description of the place at which he felt most relaxed in the world to be a true description of a place he knew. Now, McCa
leb had found it.

  He had arrived at Playa Grande through simple deduction and legwork. The description Crimmins had given during the session had obviously been the Pacific Coast. He had said he liked to drive down to this place and since McCaleb knew there was no California beach south of L.A. as remote as he had described or with horses on it, that obviously made the destination Mexico. And since Crimmins had said he drove there, that pretty much eliminated Cabo and the other points far south along the Baja peninsula. It took two days to cover the coastline that was left. McCaleb stopped at every village and every time he saw a cutoff from the highway to the beach.

  Crimmins had been right. It was a truly beautiful and restful spot. The sand was like sugar and a million years of crashing waves had carved a deep bite into the cliff face, creating the overhang that resembled nothing so much as a rock wave, curled and about to break over the beach.

  McCaleb was the only person on the beach to be seen in either direction. It was a weekday and he guessed that this stretch of sand lay largely unpopulated until the weekends. That was why Crimmins had liked it.

  Three horses were on the beach. They milled around an empty feed trough while waiting for customers. There was no need to tie them. The beach was completely enclosed by water and rock. The only way off it was the steep trail back up to the stable.

  McCaleb wore a baseball cap and sunglasses as protection against the power of the midday sun. He wore long pants and a windbreaker as well. But, entranced by the beauty of the spot, he remained on the beach long after he determined Daniel Crimmins was nowhere to be seen. After a while a teenager wearing shorts and a sweatshirt with no sleeves came down the trail and approached.

  “You would like horse ride?”

  “No, gracias. ”

  From the pocket of his coat McCaleb pulled the folded photos Tony Banks had made from the videotapes. He showed them to the boy.

  “You seen? This man… I want to find.”

  The boy stared at the photos and made no indication he understood. Finally he just shook his head.

  “No, no find.”

  He turned and headed back to the trail. McCaleb returned the photos to his jacket and after a few minutes headed back up the steep incline himself. He stopped twice on the way up but the climb still left him exhausted.