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 look -the confident walk of a man carrying a gun and a badge. He was carrying neither.
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 said IN and OUT as well as VACATION and COURT . 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 look. In a half minute the call was done and the frontman didn't bother getting up from the desk.
"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."
So much for finesse, McCaleb thought.
"Oh, shit, here we go," Arrango said.
He shook his head in annoyance, glanced behind him and then back at McCaleb.
"All right," he said, "let's get this over with. You got about ten minutes before I toss you outta here."
He turned around and McCaleb followed him into a room crowded with desks and detectives. Some of them looked up from their work at McCaleb, the intruder, but most didn't bother. Arrango snapped his fingers to draw the attention of a detective at one of the desks along the far wall. He was on the phone but looked up to see Arrango signal him. The man on the phone nodded and held up one finger. Arrango led the way to an interview room with a small table pushed against one wall and three chairs. It was smaller than a prison cell. He closed the door.
"Have a seat. My partner will be in a minute."
McCaleb took the chair opposite the table. This meant Arrango would likely take the chair to McCaleb's right or be forced to squeeze behind him to go to the chair on his left. McCaleb wanted him on the right. It was a small thing, but a routine he had always followed as an agent. Put the subject you are talking to on the right. It means they look at you from the left and engage the side of the brain that is less critical and judgmental. A psychologist at Quantico had once given the tip while teaching a class on techniques of hypnosis and interrogation. McCaleb wasn't sure if it worked but he liked to have any edge he could get. And he thought he might need one with Arrango.
"You want a doughnut?" he asked as Arrango took the chair on his right.
"No, I don't want any of your doughnuts. I just want you on your way and out of my way. It's the sister, isn't it? You're working for the goddamn sister. Let me see your ticket. I can't believe she's wasting her money on-"
"I don't have a license, if that's what you mean."
Arrango drummed his fingers on the scarred table as he thought about this.
"Jesus, you know it's stuffy in here. We shouldn't keep it closed up like this."
Arrango was a bad actor. He delivered the line as if he were reading it off a chart on the wall. He got up, adjusted the thermostat on the wall by the door and then sat back down. McCaleb knew that he had just turned on a tape recorder as well as a video camera hidden behind the air duct grill over the door.
"First off, you say you are conducting an investigation of the Gloria Torres homicide, is that correct?"
"Well, I haven't really started. I was going to talk to you first and then go from there."
"But you're working for the victim's sister?"
"Graciela Rivers asked me to look into it, yes."
"And you have no license in the state of California to operate as a private investigator, true?"
"True."
The door opened and the man Arrango had signaled earlier stepped into the room. Without turning around and looking at his partner, Arrango held a hand up, fingers spread, signaling him not to interrupt. The man McCaleb assumed was Walters folded his arms and leaned against the wall next to the door.
"Do you understand, sir, that it is a crime in this state to operate as a private investigator without a license? I could arrest you on a misdemeanor right now."
"It's illegal, not to mention unethical, to take money to conduct a private investigation without the proper license. Yes, I'm aware of that."
"Wait. You're telling me you're doing this for free?"
"That's right. As a friend of the family."
McCaleb was quickly growing tired of the bullshit and wanted to get on with what he was there for.
"Look, can we skip all the bullshit and turn off the tape and the camera and just talk for a few minutes? Besides, your partner is leaning against the microphone. You're not picking anything up."
Walters jumped away from the thermostat just as Arran
go turned around to see that McCaleb had been right. "Why didn't you tell me?" Walters said to his partner.
"Shuddup."
"Hey, have a doughnut, guys," McCaleb said. "I'm here to help."
Arrango turned back to McCaleb, still a bit flustered.
"How the fuck did you know about the tape?"
"Because you've got the same setup in every detective bureau in the city. And I've been in most of them. I used to be with the bureau. That's how I knew."
"The FBI?" Walters asked.
"FBI retired. Graciela Rivers is an acquaintance. She asked me to look into this, I said I would. I want to help."
"What's your name?" Walters asked.
Obviously he was coming to everything late because he had been on the phone. McCaleb stood up and extended his hand. Walters shook it as McCaleb introduced himself. Dennis Walters was younger than Arrango. Pale white skin, slim build. His clothes were loose, baggy, suggesting that his wardrobe had not been updated since he had experienced a dramatic loss in weight. He wore no holster at all that McCaleb could see. He probably kept his gun in his briefcase until he went out on the street. McCaleb's kind of cop. Walters knew it wasn't the gun that made the man. His partner didn't.
"I know you," he said, pointing a finger at McCaleb. "You're that guy. The serial guy."
"What are you talking about?" Arrango said.
"You know, the profilers. The serial killer squad. He was the one they sent out here permanently, since most of the nuts are out here. He worked the Sunset Strip Strangler, what else, the Code Killer, that cemetery guy, a bunch of cases out here."
He then put his attention back on McCaleb.
"Right?"
McCaleb nodded. Walters snapped his fingers.
"Didn't I read about you recently? Something in the Slimes, right?"
Once again McCaleb nodded.
"The 'Whatever Happened to . . .' column. Two Sundays back."
"That's it. Right. You got a heart transplant, right?"
McCaleb nodded. He knew that familiarity bred comfort. Eventually, they would get down to business. Walters remained standing behind Arrango but McCaleb saw his gaze drop to the box on the table.
"You want a doughnut, Detective? I'd hate to see them go to waste. I didn't get breakfast but I'm not going to have one if you guys don't."
"Don't mind if I do," Walters said.
As he came forward and opened the box, he glanced anxiously at his partner. Arrango's face was a stone. Walters took out a glazed doughnut. McCaleb took a cinnamon sugar and then Arrango broke and reluctantly took a powdered sugar. They ate silently for a few moments before McCaleb reached into his sport coat and pulled out the stack of napkins he had grabbed at Winchell's. He tossed them onto the table and everyone took one.
"So, the bureau pension's so short you've gotta pick up PI work, huh?" Walters said, his mouth full of doughnut.
"I'm not a PI. The sister's an acquaintance. Like I said, I'm not being paid."
"An acquaintance?" Arrango said. "That's the second time you said that. How exactly do you know her?"
"I live on a boat down at the harbor. I met her at the marina one day. She likes boats. We met. She found out what I once did for the bureau and asked me to take a look at this. What's the problem?"
He didn't know exactly why he was shading the truth to the point of lying. Other than that he had immediately taken a disliking to Arrango, he didn't feel he wanted to reveal his true connection to Gloria Torres and Graciela Rivers.
"Well, look," Arrango said, "I don't know what she told you about this, but this is a convenience store robbery, FBI man. This isn't Charlie Manson or Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Fucking Dahmer. It's not rocket science. This is some mope with a mask and a gun and the right ratio of balls to brains to use it all to make a couple dollars. This isn't what you're used to seein', is what I'm saying."
"I know that," McCaleb said. "But I told her I'd check into it. It's been what, going on two months now? I thought maybe you guys wouldn't mind a fresh set of eyes on something you can't be spending much time on anymore."
Walters took the bait.
"Our team's pulled four cases since then and Eddie's been in trial the last two weeks in Van Nuys," he said. "As far as Rivers goes, it's-"
"Still active," Arrango said, cutting his partner off.
McCaleb looked from Walters to Arrango.
"Right . . . Sure."
"And we've got a rule that we don't invite amateurs in on active cases."
"Amateurs?"
"You got no badge, no private ticket, that says amateur to me."
McCaleb let the insult go by. He guessed Arrango was just taking his measure anyway. He pushed on.
"That's one of those rules you bring up when it's convenient," he said. "But we all know here that I might be able to help you. What you need to know is that I'm not here to show you guys up. Not at all. Anything I come up with, you'll be the first to know. Suspects, leads, anything. It all goes to you. I'd just like a little cooperation, that's all."
"Cooperation in exactly what form?" Arrango asked. "Like my partner who talks too much says, we're kind of busy here."
"Copy me the murder book. Also any video you have. I'm good on crime scenes. That was sort of my specialty. I might be able to help you there. Just copy me what you've got and I'll get out of your way."
"What you're saying is you think we fucked up. That the answer's sitting there in the book ready to jump out at you 'cause you're a fed and the feds are so much smarter than us."
McCaleb laughed and shook his head. He was beginning to think he should have counted his losses and left as soon as he saw the macho-man holster. He tried once more.
"No, that's not what I'm saying. I don't know if you missed anything or not. I've worked with LAPD many times. If I was betting, I'd bet you missed nothing. All I'm saying is that I told Graciela Rivers I'd check into things. Let me ask you something, does she call you much?"
"The sister? Too much. Week in and week out and I tell her the same thing every time. No suspects, no leads."
"You're waiting on something to happen, right? Give it new life."
"Maybe."
"Well, this could at least be your way of getting her off your back. If I see what you've got and go back to her and say you boys did what you could, she might back off. She'll believe it from me because she knows me."
Neither of them said anything.
"What have you got to lose?" McCaleb prodded.
"We'd have to clear any kind of cooperation with the lieutenant," Arrango said. "We can't just give out copies of investigative records without his say-so, rules or no rules. In fact, you fucked up there, bro. You should've gone to him before you came to us. You know how the game's played. You didn't follow protocol."
"I understand that. I asked for him when I got here but they said he was at Valley bureau."
"Yeah, well, he should be back soon," Arrango said, checking his watch. "Tell you what, you say you're good with crime scenes?"
"Yeah. If you got a tape, I'd like to take a look at it."
Arrango looked at Walters and winked, then he looked back at McCaleb.
"We got better than a crime scene tape. We got the crime."
He kicked back his chair and stood up.
"Come on," he said. "Bring those doughnuts with you."
5
ARRANGO OPENED a drawer in one of the desks crammed into the squad room and took out a videotape. He then led the way out of the homicide squad office, down the hall and then through the half door of the main detective bureau counter. McCaleb could see they were headed for Buskirk's office, which was still empty. McCaleb left the doughnuts on the front counter and followed the others in.
Pushed into one corner of the room was a tall steel cabinet on wheels. It was the kind of setup used in classrooms and roll-call rooms. Arrango opened the two doors and there was a television and a videocassette player inside. He turned the equipment on and shoved in the tap
e.
"So look at this and tell us something we don't know yet," he said to McCaleb without looking at him. "Then maybe we go to bat for you with the lieutenant."
McCaleb moved until he stood directly in front of the television. Arrango hit the play button and soon the black-and-white image came up on the television screen. McCaleb was looking at the view held by an overhead surveillance camera in a small convenience store. The frame was drawn around the front counter area. It was glass-topped and full of cigars and disposable cameras and batteries and other high-end items. A printed date and timeline ran across the bottom of the screen.
Blood Work (1998) Page 4
