“Thank you again.”
“Something tells me I should be thanking you. I’m glad I’ll be able to do this. I just hope it helps.”
“Oh, it will. You’ve got her heart. She’ll guide you.”
“Yes,” he said hesitantly, not really understanding what she meant or why he was agreeing. “I’ll call you when I can.”
He hung up and stared at the phone for a few moments, thinking about her last line. Then again he unfolded the newspaper clip with his picture. He studied the eyes for a long time.
Finally, he folded the newspaper clip closed and hid it under some of the paperwork on the desk. He looked up at the girl with the braces and after a few moments nodded. Then he turned off the light.
There was not a single homicide cop working who did not have a healthy ego. It was an absolute job requirement. To do the job, you had to know in your heart that you were up to the task and that you were better, smarter, stronger, meaner, more skilled and more patient than your adversary. You had to flat-out know that you were going to win. And if you had any doubts about that, then you had to back off and work burglaries or take a patrol shift or do something else.
The problem was that homicide egos were often unchecked to the point that some detectives extended the view they had of their adversaries to those who wanted to help them-fellow investigators, especially FBI agents. No homicide cop on a stalled-out case wants to be told that maybe someone else-particularly a fed from Quantico -might be able to help or could do it better. It had been McCaleb’s experience that when a cop finally gave up and put a case into cold storage, he secretly didn’t want anyone taking it out and proving him wrong by solving it. As an FBI agent McCaleb was almost never asked into a case or called for advice by the lead detective. It was always the supervisor’s idea. The supervisor didn’t care about egos or hurt feelings. The supervisor cared about clearing cases and improving statistical reports. And so the bureau would be called and McCaleb would come in and have to do the dance with the lead detective. Sometimes it was the smooth dance of coordinated partners. More often it was the hard tango. Toes got stepped on, egos got bruised. On more than one occasion McCaleb suspected that a detective he was working with was holding back information or was secretly pleased when McCaleb was unsuccessful in helping identify a suspect or bringing closure to a case. It was part of the petty territorial bullshit of the law enforcement world. Sometimes consideration of the victim or the victim’s family wasn’t even on the plate. It was dessert. And sometimes there was no dessert.
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
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
“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.”
