Authors: Michael Connelly

Tags: #FIC031000

A Darkness More Than Night (7 page)

BOOK: A Darkness More Than Night

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“You still living on that boat I heard about?”

“Nope. I’m living on an island now. But I still have the boat. I’ve got a wife and new baby daughter, too.”

“Wow! Is this the Terry ‘TV Dinner’ McCaleb I used to know?”

“Same one, I guess.”

“Well, it sounds like you got your stuff together.”

“I think I finally do.”

“Then be careful with it. What are you doing chasing a case again?”

McCaleb hesitated in his reply.

“I’m not sure.”

“Don’t bullshit me. We both know why you’re doing it. Tell you what, let me see what I can find out and I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks, Brass. I’ll be waiting.”

• • •

McCaleb went into the master cabin and shook Buddy Lockridge awake. His friend startled and began swinging his arms wildly.

“It’s me, it’s me!”

Before he calmed down, Buddy clapped McCaleb on the side of the head with a book he had fallen asleep holding.

“What are you doing?” Buddy exclaimed.

“I’m trying to wake you, man.”

“What for? What time is it?”

“It’s almost six. I want to take the boat across.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now. So get up and help me. I’ll get the lines.”

“Man, now? We’re going to hit the layer. Why don’t you wait until it burns off?”

“Because I don’t have the time.”

Buddy reached up and turned on the reading lamp that was attached to the cabin wall just above the headboard. McCaleb noticed the book he was reading was called
The Wire in the Blood.

“Something sure put a wire in your blood, man,” he said as he rubbed his ear where the book had hit him.

“Sorry about that. Why you in such a hurry to cross, anyway? It’s that case, isn’t it?”

“I’ll be on top. Let’s get it going.”

McCaleb headed out of the cabin. Buddy called after him as he expected he would.

“You going to need a driver?”

“No, Buddy. You know I’ve been driving a couple years now.”

“Yeah, but you might need help with the case, man.”

“I’ll be all right. Hurry up, Bud, I want to get over there.”

McCaleb took the key off the hook next to the salon door and went out and climbed up into the bridge. The air was still chilled and tendrils of dawn light were working their way through the morning mist. He flicked on the Raytheon radar and started the engines. They turned over immediately — Buddy had taken the boat over to Marina del Rey the week before to have them overhauled.

McCaleb left them idling while he climbed back down and went to the fantail. He untied the stern line and then the Zodiac and led it around to the bow. He tied the Zodiac to the line from the mooring buoy after releasing it from the forward cleat. The boat was free now. He turned in the bow pulpit and looked up at the bridge just as Buddy, his hair a wiry nest from sleep, slid into the pilot seat. McCaleb signaled that the boat was loose. Buddy pushed the throttles forward and
The Following Sea
began to move. McCaleb picked the eight-foot gaff pole up off the deck and used it to keep the buoy off the bow as the boat made the turn into the fairway and slowly headed toward the mouth of the harbor.

McCaleb stayed in the pulpit, leaning back against the railing and watching the island slip away behind the boat. He looked up once again toward his house and saw only the one light still on. It was too early for his family to be awake. He thought about the mistake he had knowingly just made. He should have gone up to the house and told Graciela what he was doing, tried to explain it. But he knew it would lose him a lot of time and that he would never be able to explain it to her satisfaction. He decided to just go. He would call his wife after the crossing and he would deal with the consequences of his decision later.

The cool air of the shark-gray dawn had tightened the skin on his arms and neck. He turned in the bow pulpit and looked forward and across the bay to where he knew overtown lay hidden beneath the marine layer. Not being able to see what he knew to be there gave him an ominous feeling and he looked down. The water the bow cut through was flat and as blue-black as a marlin’s skin. McCaleb knew he needed to get up into the bridge to help Buddy. One of them would drive while the other kept an eye on the radar screen to chart a safe course to Los Angeles Harbor. Too bad, he thought, that there would be no radar for him to use once he was on land again and trying to chart his way through the case that now gripped him. A mist of a different kind awaited him there. And these thoughts of trying to see his way through turned his mind to the thing about the case that had hooked him so deeply.

Beware Beware God Sees

The words turned in his head like a newfound mantra. There was someone in the cloaking mist ahead who had written those words. Someone who had acted on them in an extreme capacity at least once and who would likely act on them again. McCaleb was going to find that person. And in doing so, he wondered, whose words would he be acting on? Was there a true God sending him on this journey?

He felt a touch on his shoulder and startled and turned, nearly dropping the gaff pole overboard. It was Buddy.

“Jesus, man, don’t do that!”

“You all right?”

“I was till you scared the hell out of me. What are you doing? You should be driving.”

McCaleb glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were clear of the harbor markers and into the open bay.

“I don’t know,” Buddy said. “You looked like Ahab standing out here with that gaff. I thought something was wrong. What are you doing?”

“I was thinking. Do you mind? Don’t sneak up on me like that, man.”

“Well, I guess that makes us even then.”

“Just go drive the boat, Buddy. I’ll be up in a minute. And check the generator — might as well juice the batteries.”

As Buddy moved away McCaleb felt his heart even out again. He stepped off the pulpit and snapped the gaff back into its clamps on the deck. As he was bent over he felt the boat rise and fall as it went over a three- or four-foot roller. He straightened up and looked around for the origin of the wake. But he saw nothing. It had been a phantom moving across the flat surface of the bay.

Harry Bosch raised his briefcase like a shield and used it to push his way through the crowd of reporters and cameras gathered outside the doors of the courtroom.

“Let me through, please, let me through.”

Most of them didn’t move until he used the briefcase to lever them out of the way. They were desperately crowding in and reaching tape recorders and cameras toward the center of the human knot where the defense lawyer was holding court.

Bosch finally made it to the door, where a sheriff’s deputy was pressed against the handle. He recognized Bosch and stepped sideways so he could open the door.

“You know,” Bosch said to the deputy, “this is going to happen every day. This guy has more to say outside court than inside. You might want to think about setting up some rules so people can get in and out.”

As Bosch went through the door, he heard the deputy tell him to talk to the judge about it.

Bosch walked down the center aisle and then through the gate to the prosecution table. He was the first to arrive. He pulled the third chair out and sat down. He opened his briefcase on the table, took out the heavy blue binder and put it to the side. He then closed and snapped the briefcase locks and put it down on the floor next to his chair.

Bosch was ready. He leaned forward and folded his arms on top of the binder. The courtroom was still, almost empty except for the judge’s clerk and a court reporter who were getting ready for the day. Bosch liked these times. The quiet before the storm. And he knew without a doubt that a storm was surely coming. He nodded to himself. He was ready, ready to dance with the devil once more. He realized that his mission in life was all about moments like these. Moments that should be savored and remembered but that always caused a tight fisting of his guts.

There was a loud metallic clacking sound and the door to the side holding cell opened. Two deputies led a man through the door. He was young and still tanned somehow despite almost three months in lockup. He wore a suit that would easily take the weekly paychecks of the men on either side of him. His hands were cuffed at his sides to a waist chain which looked incongruous with the perfect blue suit. In one hand he clasped an artist’s sketch pad. The other held a black felt-tip pen, the only kind of writing instrument allowed in lockdown.

The man was led to the defense table and positioned in front of the middle seat. He smiled and looked forward as the cuffs and the chain were removed. A deputy put a hand on the man’s shoulder and pushed him down into the seat. The deputies then moved back and took positions in chairs to the man’s rear.

The man immediately leaned forward and opened the sketch pad and went to work with his pen. Bosch watched. He could hear the point of the pen scratching furiously on the paper.

“They don’t allow me a charcoal, Bosch. Do you believe that? What threat could a piece of charcoal possibly be?”

He hadn’t looked at Bosch as he said it. Bosch didn’t reply.

“It’s the little things like that that bother me the most,” the man said.

“Better get used to it,” Bosch said.

The man laughed but still did not look at Bosch.

“You know, somehow I knew that was exactly what you were going to say.”

Bosch was quiet.

“You see, you are so predictable Bosch. All of you are.”

The rear courtroom door opened and Bosch turned his eyes away from the defendant. The attorneys were coming in now. They were about to start.

By the time McCaleb got to the Farmers’ Market he was thirty minutes late for the meeting with Jaye Winston. He and Buddy had made the crossing in an hour and a half and McCaleb had called the sheriff’s detective after they tied up at Cabrillo Marina. They arranged to meet but then he found the battery in the Cherokee dead because the car hadn’t been used in two weeks. He had to get Buddy to give him a jump from his old Taurus and that had taken up the time.

He walked into Dupar’s, the corner restaurant in the market, but didn’t see Winston at any of the tables or the counter. He hoped she hadn’t come and gone. He chose an unoccupied booth that afforded the most privacy and sat down. He didn’t need to look at a menu. They had chosen the Farmer’s Market to meet because it was near Edward Gunn’s apartment and because McCaleb wanted to eat breakfast at Dupar’s. He had told Winston that more than anything else about Los Angeles, he missed the pancakes at Dupar’s. Often when he and Graciela and the children made their once-a-month trip overtown to buy clothing and supplies not available on Catalina, they ate a meal at Dupar’s. It didn’t matter whether it was breakfast, lunch or dinner, McCaleb always ordered pancakes. Raymond did, too. But he was boysenberry while McCaleb was traditional maple.

McCaleb told the waitress he was waiting for another party but ordered a large orange juice and a glass of water. After she brought the two glasses he opened his leather bag and took out the plastic pill box. He kept a week’s supply of his pills on the boat and another couple days’ worth in the glove box of the Cherokee. He’d prepared the box after docking. Alternating gulps of orange juice and water, he downed the twenty-seven pills that made up his morning dosage. He knew their names by their shapes and colors and tastes; Prilosec, Imuran, digoxin. As he methodically went through the lineup he noticed a woman in a nearby booth watching, her eyebrows arched in wonder.

He would never get rid of the pills. They were as certain for him as the proverbial death and taxes. Over the years some would be changed, some subtracted and new ones added, but he knew he would be swallowing pills and washing away their awful tastes with orange juice for the rest of his life.

“I see you ordered without me.”

He looked up from the last three cyclosporine pills he was about to take as Jaye Winston slid into the opposite side of the booth.

“Sorry, I’m so late. Traffic on the
10
was a complete bitch.”

“It’s all right. I was late, too. Dead battery.”

“How many of those you take now?”

“Fifty-four a day.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I had to turn a hallway closet into a medicine cabinet. The whole thing.”

“Well, at least you’re still here.”

She smiled and McCaleb nodded. The waitress came to the table with a menu for Winston but she said they had better order.

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

McCaleb ordered a large stack with melted butter. He told the waitress they would share one order of well-done bacon.