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McCaleb was pretty sure he was facing a hard tango with the LAPD. It didn’t matter that they had apparently hit the wall with the Gloria Torres investigation and could use the help. It was territorial. And to make matters worse, he wasn’t even with the FBI anymore. He was going in naked, without a badge. All he had with him when he arrived at seven-thirty on Tuesday morning at the West Valley Division was his leather bag and a box of doughnuts. He was going to be dancing the hard tango without music.

McCaleb had chosen his arrival time because he knew that most detectives started early so they could get done early. It was the time when he had the best chance of catching the two assigned to the Gloria Torres case in their office. Graciela had given him their names. Arrango and Walters. McCaleb didn’t know them, but he had met their commanding officer, Lieutenant Dan Buskirk, a few years earlier on the Code Killer case. But it was a superficial relationship. McCaleb didn’t know what Buskirk thought about him. He decided, though, that it would be best to follow protocol and start with Buskirk and then, hopefully, get to Arrango and Walters.

West Valley Division was on Owensmouth Street in Reseda. It seemed to be an odd place for a police station. Most of the LAPD’s stations were placed in the tough areas where police attention was needed most. They had concrete walls erected at the entranceways to guard against drive-by shootings. But West Valley was different. There were no barriers. The station was in a bucolic, middle-class, residential setting. There was a library on one side and a public park on the other, plenty of parking at the front curb. Across the street was a row of signature San Fernando Valley ranch houses.

After the cab dropped him off out front, McCaleb entered through the main lobby, threw an easy salute at one of the uniformed officers behind the counter and headed toward the hallway to the left. He showed no hesitation. He knew it led to the detective bureau because most of the city’s police divisions were laid out the same way.

The uniform didn’t stop him and this encouraged McCaleb. Maybe it was the box of doughnuts but he took it to mean he still had at least some of the look -the confident walk of a man carrying a gun and a badge. He was carrying neither.

After entering the detective bureau, he came to another counter. By pressing against it and leaning over, he could look to the left and through the glass window of the small office he knew belonged to the detective lieutenant. It was empty.

“Can I help you?”

He straightened up and looked at the young detective who had approached the counter from a nearby desk. Probably a trainee assigned counter duty. Usually, they used old men from the neighborhood who volunteered their time or cops assigned light duty because of injury or disciplinary action.

“I was hoping to see Lieutenant Buskirk. Is he here?”

“He’s in a meeting at Valley bureau. Can I help you with something?”

That meant Buskirk was in Van Nuys at the Valley-wide command office. McCaleb’s plan to start with him was out the window. He could now wait for Buskirk or leave and come back. But go where? The library? There wasn’t even a nearby coffee shop he could walk to. He decided to take his chances with Arrango and Walters. He wanted to keep moving.

“How about Arrango or Walters in homicide?”

The detective glanced at a plastic wall-mounted board with names going down the left side and rows of boxes to be checked that saidIN andOUT as well asVACATION andCOURT. But there were no check marks of any kind made after the names Arrango and Walters.

“Let me check,” the frontman said. “Your name?”

“My name is McCaleb but it won’t mean anything to them. Tell them it’s about the Gloria Torres case.”

The frontman went back to his desk and punched in three digits on the phone. He spoke in a whisper. McCaleb knew then that as far as the frontman was concerned, he didn’t have the look. In a half minute the call was done and the frontman didn’t bother getting up from the desk.

“Turn around, back down the hall, first door on the right.”

McCaleb nodded, took the box of doughnuts off the counter and followed the instructions. As he approached, he put the leather bag under one arm so he could open the door. But it opened as he was reaching for it. A man in a white shirt and tie stood there. His gun was held in a shoulder harness under his right arm. This was a bad sign. Detectives rarely used their weapons, homicide detectives even less than others. Whenever McCaleb saw a homicide detective with a shoulder harness instead of the more comfortable belt clip, he knew he was dealing with a major ego. He almost sighed out loud.

“Mr. McCaleb?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Eddie Arrango, what can I do for you? My guy up front said you’re here about Glory Torres?”

They shook hands after McCaleb awkwardly transferred the box of doughnuts to his left hand.

“That’s right.”

He was a large man, more in horizontal than vertical proportions. Latino, with a full head of black hair feathered with gray. Mid-forties, with a solid build, no stomach over the belt. It went with the shoulder harness. He took up the whole door and made no move to invite his visitor in.

“Is there a place we can talk about this?”

“Talk about what?”

“I’m going to be looking into her murder.”

So much for finesse, McCaleb thought.

“Oh, shit, here we go,” Arrango said.

He shook his head in annoyance, glanced behind him and then back at McCaleb.

“All right,” he said, “let’s get this over with. You got about ten minutes before I toss you outta here.”

He turned around and McCaleb followed him into a room crowded with desks and detectives. Some of them looked up from their work at McCaleb, the intruder, but most didn’t bother. Arrango snapped his fingers to draw the attention of a detective at one of the desks along the far wall. He was on the phone but looked up to see Arrango signal him. The man on the phone nodded and held up one finger. Arrango led the way to an interview room with a small table pushed against one wall and three chairs. It was smaller than a prison cell. He closed the door.

“Have a seat. My partner will be in in a minute.”

McCaleb took the chair opposite the table. This meant Arrango would likely take the chair to McCaleb’s right or be forced to squeeze behind him to go to the chair on his left. McCaleb wanted him on the right. It was a small thing, but a routine he had always followed as an agent. Put the subject you are talking to on the right. It means they look at you from the left and engage the side of the brain that is less critical and judgmental. A psychologist at Quantico had once given the tip while teaching a class on techniques of hypnosis and interrogation. McCaleb wasn’t sure if it worked but he liked to have any edge he could get. And he thought he might need one with Arrango.

“You want a doughnut?” he asked as Arrango took the chair on his right.

“No, I don’t want any of your doughnuts. I just want you on your way and out of my way. It’s the sister, isn’t it? You’re working for the goddamn sister. Let me see your ticket. I can’t believe she’s wasting her money on-”

“I don’t have a license, if that’s what you mean.”

Arrango drummed his fingers on the scarred table as he thought about this.

“Jesus, you know it’s stuffy in here. We shouldn’t keep it closed up like this.”

Arrango was a bad actor. He delivered the line as if he were reading it off a chart on the wall. He got up, adjusted the thermostat on the wall by the door and then sat back down. McCaleb knew that he had just turned on a tape recorder as well as a video camera hidden behind the air duct grill over the door.

“First off, you say you are conducting an investigation of the Gloria Torres homicide, is that correct?”

“Well, I haven’t really started. I was going to talk to you first and then go from there.”

“But you’re working for the victim’s sister?”

“Graciela Rivers asked me to look into it, yes.”

“And you have no license in the state of California to operate as a private investigator, true?”

“True.”

The door opened and the man Arrango had signaled earlier stepped into the room. Without turning around and looking at his partner, Arrango held a hand up, fingers spread, signaling him not to interrupt. The man McCaleb assumed was Walters folded his arms and leaned against the wall next to the door.

“Do you understand, sir, that it is a crime in this state to operate as a private investigator without a license? I could arrest you on a misdemeanor right now.”

“It’s illegal, not to mention unethical, to take money to conduct a private investigation without the proper license. Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“Wait. You’re telling me you’re doing this for free?”

“That’s right. As a friend of the family.”

McCaleb was quickly growing tired of the bullshit and wanted to get on with what he was there for.

“Look, can we skip all the bullshit and turn off the tape and the camera and just talk for a few minutes? Besides, your partner is leaning against the microphone. You’re not picking anything up.”

Walters jumped away from the thermostat just as Arrango turned around to see that McCaleb had been right. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Walters said to his partner.

“Shuddup.”

“Hey, have a doughnut, guys,” McCaleb said. “I’m here to help.”

Arrango turned back to McCaleb, still a bit flustered.

“How the fuck did you know about the tape?”

Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.

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