Kretzler introduced the tape as evidence. Fowkkes objected, saying that Edgar had already testified as to what was said and the audio wasn’t necessary. Again the judge overruled and the tape was played. Kretzler started the tape well before the statement made by Storey so that the jurors would hear the hum of the car engine and traffic noise and know that Edgar did not violate the defendant’s rights by questioning him in order to elicit the statement.
When the tape came to Storey’s comment, the tone of arrogance and even hate for his investigators came through loud and clear.
Wanting that tone to be what carried the jurors into the weekend, Kretzler ended his questioning of Edgar.
Fowkkes, perhaps understanding the ploy, said he would have a brief cross-examination. He proceeded to ask Edgar a series of innocuous questions that added little to the record in favor of the defense or disfavor of the prosecution. At precisely 4:30 P.M. he ended the cross-examination and Judge Houghton promptly recessed for the weekend.
As the courtroom emptied into the hallway, Bosch looked around for McEvoy but didn’t see him. Edgar and Rider, who had hung around after her testimony, came up to him.
“Harry, how ’bout we go get a drink?” Rider said.
“How ’bout we go get drunk?” Bosch replied.
Chapter 28
They waited until 10:30 Saturday morning for their charter clients to arrive but no one showed. McCaleb was sitting silently on the gunwale in the stern doing a slow burn over everything. The missing charter, his dismissal from the case, the most recent phone call from Jaye Winston, everything. Before he left the house Winston had called to apologize for how things had gone the day before. He feigned indifference and told her to forget about it. And he still didn’t tell her about Buddy Lockridge overhearing them on the boat two days earlier. When Jaye said Twilley and Friedman had decided it would be best if he returned the copies of all the documents relating to the case, he told her to tell them they could come get them if they wanted them. He said he had a charter and had to go. They abruptly said good-byes and hung up.
Raymond was bent over the stern, fishing with a little spinner reel McCaleb had gotten him after they moved to the island. He was looking through the clear water at the moving shapes of the orange garibaldi fish twenty feet below. Buddy Lockridge was sitting in the fighting chair reading the Metro section of the Los Angeles Times. He seemed as relaxed as a summer wave. McCaleb had not yet confronted him with his suspicions that he was the leak. He had been waiting for the right moment.
“Hey, Terror, you see this story?” Lockridge said. “About Bosch giving his testimony yesterday in Van Nuys court?”
“Nope.”
“Man, what they’re hinting at here is that this director’s a serial killer. Sounds like one of your old cases. And here the guy on the witness stand putting the finger on him is a -”
“Buddy, I told you, don’t talk about that. Or did you forget what I said?”
“Okay, sorry. I was just saying, if this ain’t irony I don’t know what is, that’s all.”
“Fine. Leave it at that.”
McCaleb checked his watch again. The clients should have been there at ten. He straightened up and went to the salon door.
“I’ll make some calls,” he said. “I don’t want to be waiting around all day for these people.”
At the little chart table in the boat’s salon he opened a drawer and took out the clipboard where they attached the charter reservations. There were only two pages on it. The current day’s charter and a reservation for the following Saturday. The winter months were slow. He looked at the information on the top sheet. He was unfamiliar with it because Buddy had taken the reservation. The charter was for four men from Long Beach. They were supposed to come over Friday night and stay at the Zane Grey. A four-hour charter – 10 to 2 on Saturday – and then they’d take a late ferry back to overtown. Buddy had taken the organizer’s home number and the name of the hotel as well as a deposit of half the charter fee.
He looked at the list of hotels and phone numbers taped to the chart table and called the Zane Grey first. He quickly learned that no one with the charter organizer’s name – the only one of the four names McCaleb had – was staying at the hotel. He then called the man’s home number and got his wife. She said her husband wasn’t home.
“Well, we’re kind of waiting for him on a boat over here on Catalina. Do you know if he and his friends are on their way?”
There was a long silence.
“Ma’am, you there?”
“Uh, yes, yes. It’s just that, they’re not going fishing today. They told me they canceled that trip. They’re out golfing right now. I can give you my husband’s cell phone if you would like. You could talk -”
“That’s not necessary, ma’am. Have a nice day.”
McCaleb closed his phone. He knew exactly what had happened. Neither he nor Buddy had checked the answering service that handled calls to the phone number they had placed on their charter ads in various phone books and fishing publications. He called the number now, punched in the code and, sure enough, there had been a message waiting since Wednesday. The party canceled the charter. They’d reschedule later.
“Yeah, sure,” McCaleb said.
He erased the message and closed the phone. He felt like throwing it through the glass slider at Buddy’s head but he tried to calm himself. He walked into the little galley and got a quart carton of orange juice out of the cooler. He took it out with him to the stern.
“No charter today,” he said before taking a long drink from the carton.
“Why not?” Raymond asked, his disappointment obvious.
McCaleb wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his long-sleeve T-shirt.
“They canceled.”
Lockridge looked up from the newspaper and McCaleb hit him with a laser stare.
“Well, we keep the deposit, right?” Buddy asked. “I took a two-hundred-dollar deposit on Visa.”
“No, we don’t keep the deposit because they canceled on Wednesday. We’ve both been too busy I guess to check the charter line like we’re supposed to.”
“Ah, fuck! That’s my fault.”
“Buddy, not in front of the boy. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Sorry. Sorry.”
McCaleb continued to stare at him. He had not wanted to talk about the leak to McEvoy until after the charter because he needed Buddy’s help running a four-man fishing party. Now it didn’t matter. Now was the time.
“Raymond,” he said while still staring at Lockridge. “Do you still want to earn your money?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean ‘yes,’ don’t you?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes.”
“Okay, then reel in, hook your line and start taking these rods in and put them in the rack. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
The boy quickly reeled in his line, took off his bait and threw it into the water. He attached the hook to one of the rod’s eyelets and then leaned it in the corner of the stern so he could take it home with him. He liked to practice his casting technique on the rear deck of the house, dropping a rubber practice weight onto the roofs and backyards below.
Raymond started taking the deep-sea rods out of the holders where Buddy had placed them in preparation for the charter. Two by two he took them into the salon and put them in the overhead racks. He had to stand on the couch to do it but it was an old couch in dire need of a new slipcover and McCaleb didn’t care about it.
