A Darkness More Than Night (34 page)
He gestured toward Raymond, meaning this was the tense conversation he had caught part of and told Graciela about.
“Well, did you call Jaye and tell her it was him?”
“No, it doesn’t matter. It came through me. I was dumb enough to let him on the boat. Can we talk about something else? I’m tired of thinking and talking about this.”
“Fine, Terry, what else do you want to talk about?”
He was silent. She was silent. After a long moment he started to laugh.
“I can’t think of anything right now.”
Graciela finished eating a bite of her sandwich. McCaleb looked over at Cielo, who was looking at a blue-and-white ball that was suspended over her on a wire attached to the side of her bouncer seat. She was trying to reach for it with her tiny hands but couldn’t quite make it. McCaleb could see her getting frustrated and he understood the feeling.
“Raymond, tell your father what you saw today in the gardens,” Graciela said.
She had recently begun referring to McCaleb as Raymond’s father. They had adopted him but McCaleb didn’t want to put any pressure on the boy to think of or refer to him as his father. Raymond usually called him Terry.
“We saw a Channel Islands fox,” he said now. “It was hunting in the canyon.”
“I thought foxes hunted at night and slept during the day.”
“Well, somebody woke him up then because we saw him. He was big.”
Graciela nodded, confirming the sighting.
“Pretty cool,” McCaleb said. “Too bad you didn’t get a picture.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Graciela used her napkin to clean spittle off the baby’s chin.
“Anyway,” McCaleb said, “I’m sure you’re happy that I’m off it and things will be normal around here again.”
Graciela looked at him.
“I want you to be safe. I want the whole family to be together and safe. That’s what makes me happy, Terry.”
He nodded and finished his sandwich. She continued.
“I want you to be happy but if that means working these cases, then that is a conflict with your personal well-being as far as your health is concerned and the well-being of this family.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about it anymore. I don’t think anybody will come calling on me again after this.”
He got up to clear the table. But before picking up plates he leaned over his daughter’s chair and bent the wire so that the blue-and-white ball would be within her reach.
“It’s not supposed to be like that,” Graciela said.
McCaleb looked at her.
“Yes, it is.”
29
McCaleb stayed up into the early morning hours with the baby. He and Graciela alternated nights on duty so that at least one of them got a decent night of sleep. Cielo seemed to have an almost hourly feed clock. Each time she awoke he would feed her and walk her through the dark house. He would gently pat her back until he heard her burp and then he would put her down again. In an hour the process would begin again.
After each cycle McCaleb would walk through the house and check the doors. It was a nervous habit, his routine. The house, by virtue of being up on the hillside, was fogged in tight. Looking through the rear windows, he couldn’t even see the lights of the pier down below. He wondered if the fog stretched across the bay to the mainland. Harry Bosch’s house was up high. He wondered if he was standing at his window looking into the misty nothingness as well.
In the morning Graciela took the baby and McCaleb, exhausted from the night and everything else, slept until eleven. When he came to he found the house to be quiet. In his T-shirt and boxer shorts he wandered down the hall and found the kitchen and family room empty. Graciela had left a note on the kitchen table saying she had taken the children to St. Catherine’s for the ten o’clock service and then to the market afterward. The note said they’d be back by noon.
McCaleb went to the refrigerator and got out the gallon jug of orange juice. He poured a full glass and then took his keys off the counter and went back into the hallway to the locking cabinet. He opened it up and got out a plastic Ziploc bag containing a morning dose of the drug therapy that kept him alive. The first of every month he and Graciela carefully put together the doses and put them in plastic bags marked with dates and whether they were the
A.M.
or
P.M.
dosage. It made it easier than having to open dozens of pill bottles twice a day.
A.M.
or
P.M.
dosage. It made it easier than having to open dozens of pill bottles twice a day.
He took the bag back to the kitchen and began taking the pills two and three at a time with gulps of juice. As he followed this routine he looked through the kitchen window and down to the harbor below. The fog had moved out. It was still misty but clear enough for him to see
The Following Sea
and a skiff tied at its fantail.
The Following Sea
and a skiff tied at its fantail.
He went to one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out the set of binoculars Graciela liked to use when she was watching him on the boat heading in or out of the harbor with a charter party. He went out onto the deck and to the railing. He focused the binoculars. There was no one in the cockpit or up on the bridge of the boat. His view could not penetrate the reflective film on the sliding door of the salon. He moved his focus to the skiff. It was weathered green with a one-and-a-half-horse outboard. He recognized it as being one of the rentals from the concession on the pier.
McCaleb went back inside and left the binoculars on the counter while he swiped the remaining pills into his hand. He took them and the orange juice back to the bedroom. He quickly ingested the pills while he got dressed. He knew Buddy Lockridge would not have rented a boat to get to
The Following Sea.
Buddy knew which Zodiac was McCaleb’s and would simply have borrowed that.
The Following Sea.
Buddy knew which Zodiac was McCaleb’s and would simply have borrowed that.
Somebody else was on his boat.
• • •
It took him twenty minutes to walk down to the pier because Graciela had the golf cart. He went to the boat rental booth first to ask who had rented the boat but the window was closed and there was a sign with a clock face that said the operator would not be back until
12
:
30
. McCaleb checked his watch. It was ten after twelve. He couldn’t wait. He went down the ramp to the skiff dock and stepped onto his Zodiac and started the engine.
12
:
30
. McCaleb checked his watch. It was ten after twelve. He couldn’t wait. He went down the ramp to the skiff dock and stepped onto his Zodiac and started the engine.
As McCaleb moved down the fairway toward
The Following Sea
he studied the side windows of the salon but still could not see any movement or indication that someone was on the boat. He cut the engine on the Zodiac when he was twenty-five yards away and the inflatable skiff glided the rest of the way silently. He unzipped the pocket of his windbreaker and removed the Glock
17
, his service weapon from his time with the bureau.
The Following Sea
he studied the side windows of the salon but still could not see any movement or indication that someone was on the boat. He cut the engine on the Zodiac when he was twenty-five yards away and the inflatable skiff glided the rest of the way silently. He unzipped the pocket of his windbreaker and removed the Glock
17
, his service weapon from his time with the bureau.
The Zodiac bumped lightly into the fantail next to the rental skiff. McCaleb first looked into the skiff but saw nothing other than a life vest and a flotation cushion, nothing that indicated who had rented the boat. He stepped onto the fantail and while crouched behind the stern wrapped the Zodiac’s line around one of the rear cleats. He looked over the transom and saw only himself in the sliding door. He knew he would have to approach the door not knowing if there would be someone on the other side watching him come in.
He crouched down again and looked around. He wondered if he should retreat and come back with the harbor patrol boat. After a moment he decided against it. He glanced up the hill at his house and then raised himself and swung his body over the transom. With the gun carried low and hidden behind his hip he walked to the door and looked down at the lock. There was no damage or indication it had been tampered with. He pulled the handle and the door slid open. McCaleb was sure he had locked it the day before when leaving with Raymond.
He stepped inside. The salon was empty, no sign of intruder or burglary. He slid the door closed behind him and listened. The boat was silent. There was the sound of water lapping against the outside surfaces and that was it. His eyes moved toward the steps leading to the lower-deck staterooms and the head. He moved that way, raising the gun in front of him now.
On the second of the four steps down McCaleb hit a cracked board that sighed with his weight. He froze and listened for a response. There was only silence and the relentless sound of water against the sides of the boat. At the bottom of the stairs was a short hallway with three doors. Directly ahead was the forward stateroom, which had been converted into an office and file storage room. To the right was the master stateroom. To the left was the head.
The door to the master stateroom was closed and McCaleb could not remember if it had been that way when he had left the boat twenty-four hours earlier. The door to the head was wide open and hooked on the inside wall so it wouldn’t swing and slam when the boat was moving. The office door was partially open and swaying slightly with the movement of the boat. There was a light on inside the room and McCaleb could tell it was the light over the desk, which was built into the lower berth of a set of bunk beds to the left of the door. McCaleb decided he would check the head first, followed by the office and then the master last. As he approached the head he realized that he smelled cigarette smoke.
The head was empty and too small to be used as a hiding place anyway. As he turned toward the office door and raised his weapon, a voice called out from within.
“Come on in, Terry.”
He recognized the voice. He cautiously stepped forward and used his free hand to push open the door. He kept the gun raised.
The door swung open and there was Harry Bosch sitting at the desk, his body in a relaxed posture, leaning back and looking toward the door. Both his hands were in sight. Both were empty except for the unlit cigarette between two fingers of his right hand. McCaleb slowly moved into the small room, still holding the gun up and aimed at Bosch.
“You going to shoot me? You want to be my accuser
and
my executioner?”
and
my executioner?”
“This is breaking and entering.”
“Then I guess that makes us even.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That little dance at my place the other night, what do you call that? ‘Harry, I gotta couple more questions about the case.’ Only you never asked any real questions, did you? Instead, you take a look at my wife’s picture and ask about that, and you ask about the picture in the hallway and you drink my beer and, oh, yeah, you tell me all about finding God in your baby daughter’s blue eyes. So what do you call all of that, Terry?”
Bosch casually turned the chair and glanced over his shoulder at the desk. McCaleb looked past him and saw his own laptop computer was open and turned on. On the screen he could see that Bosch had called up the file containing the notes for the profile he was going to compose until everything changed the day before. He wished he had protected it with a password.
“It feels like breaking and entering to me,” Bosch said, his eyes on the screen. “Maybe worse.”
In Bosch’s new posture the leather bomber jacket he was wearing fell open and McCaleb could see the pistol holstered on his hip. He continued to hold his own weapon up and ready.
Bosch looked back at him.
“I didn’t get a chance to look at all of this yet. Looks like a lot of notes and analysis. Probably all first-rate stuff, knowing you. But somehow, someway, you got it wrong, McCaleb. I’m not the guy.”
McCaleb slowly slid back into the lower berth of the opposite set of bunks. He held the gun with a little less precision now. He sensed there was no immediate danger from Bosch. If he had wanted to, he could have ambushed him as he’d come in.
“You shouldn’t be here, Harry. You shouldn’t be talking to me.”
“I know, anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. But who am I going to talk to? You put the bead on me. I want it off.”
“Well, you’re too late. I’m off the case. And you don’t want to know who’s on it.”
Bosch just stared at him and waited.
“The bureau’s civil rights division. You think Internal Affairs has been a pain in your ass? These people live and breathe for one thing, taking scalps. And an LAPD scalp is worth more than Boardwalk and Park Place put together.”
“How’d that happen, the reporter?”
McCaleb nodded.
“I guess that means he talked to you, too.”
Bosch nodded.
“Tried to. Yesterday.”
Bosch looked around himself, noticed the cigarette in his hand and put it in his mouth.
“You mind if I smoke?”
“You already have been.”
Bosch pulled a lighter out of his jacket pocket and lit the cigarette. He pulled the trash can out from beneath the desk and next to his seat to be used as an ashtray.
“Can’t seem to quit these.”
“Addictive personality. A good and bad attribute in a detective.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
He took a hit off the cigarette.
“We’ve known each other for what is it, ten, twelve years?”
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