Blood Work

“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, McCaleb had found it.