Michael Connelly - A Darkness More Than Night

“This is Don Twilley and this is Marcus Friedman. They’re with the bureau.”

All three of them pulled out chairs and sat down. Friedman sat next to McCaleb, Twilley directly across from him. Nobody shook hands.

“I’ve never had Cuban food before,” Twilley said as he pulled a menu from the napkin stand. “Is it good here?”

McCaleb looked at him.

“No. That’s why I like to eat here.”

Twilley’s eyes came up from the menu and he smiled.

“I know, stupid question.” He looked down at the menu and then back up at McCaleb. “You know I know about you, Terry. You’re a fucking legend in the FO. Not ’cause of the heart, ’cause of the cases. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

McCaleb looked over at Winston with a look that said what the hell is going on.

“Terry, Marc and Don are from the civil rights section.”

“Yeah? That’s great. Did you guys come all the way from the field office to meet the legend and try Cuban food, or is there something else?”

“Uh…,” Twilley began.

“Terry, the shit’s hit the fan,” Winston said. “A reporter called my captain this morning to ask if we were investigating Harry Bosch as a suspect in the Gunn case.”

McCaleb leaned back in his seat, shocked by the news. He was about to respond when the waiter came to the table.

“Give us a couple minutes,” Twilley said gruffly to the man, waving him off with a dismissive gesture, which annoyed McCaleb.

Winston continued.

“Terry, before we go further with this, I have to know something. Did you leak this?”

McCaleb shook his head in disgust.

“Are you kidding me? You’re asking me that?”

“Look, all I know is that it didn’t come from me. And I didn’t tell anyone, not Captain Hitchens and not even my own partner, let alone a reporter.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. Thanks for asking.”

He glanced at Twilley and then back at Winston. He hated having this dispute with Jaye in front of them.

“What are these guys doing here?” he asked. Then looking at Twilley again, he added, “What do you want?”

“They’re taking over the case, Terry,” Winston answered. “And you’re out.”

McCaleb looked back at Winston. His mouth opened a little before he realized how he looked and closed it.

“What are you talking about? I’m out? I’m the only one in. I’ve been working this as -”

“I know, Terry. But things are different now. After the reporter called Hitchens I had to tell him what was happening, what we’d been doing. He threw a fit and after he was done throwing a fit he decided the best way to handle this was to go to the bureau with it.”

“The civil rights section, Terry,” Twilley said. “Investigating cops is our bread and butter. We’ll be able to -”

“Fuck you, Twilley. Don’t try that bureau rap with me. I used to be in the club, remember? I know how it goes. You guys will come in, piggyback my trail and then waltz Bosch past the cameras on the way to the lockup.”

“Is that what this is about?” Friedman said. “Getting the credit?”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Terry,” Twilley said. “We can put you in front of the cameras if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want. And don’t call me Terry. You don’t even fuckin’ know me.”

He looked down at the table, shaking his head.

“Fuck, I’ve been waiting to come back to this place for a long time and now I don’t even feel like eating.”

“Terry…,” Winston said, not offering anything else.

“What, you’re going to tell me this is right?”

“No. It’s not right or wrong. It’s just the way it is. The investigation is official now. You’re not official. You knew this could happen from the start.”

He reluctantly nodded. He brought his elbows up onto the table and put his face into his hands.

“Who was the reporter?”

When Winston didn’t answer he dropped his hands and looked pointedly at her.

“Who?”

“A guy named Jack McEvoy. He works for the New Times, an alternative weekly that likes to stir up shit.”

“I know what it is.”

“You know McEvoy?” Twilley asked.

McCaleb’s cell phone began to chirp. It was in the pocket of his jacket draped over his chair. It got caught in the pocket as he tried to get it out. He anxiously struggled with it because he assumed it would be Graciela. Other than Winston and Buddy Lockridge, he’d only given the number to Brass Doran in Quantico and he had finished his business with her.

He finally answered after the fifth chirp.

“Hey, Agent McCaleb, it’s Jack McEvoy from the New Times. You got a couple minutes to talk?”

McCaleb looked across the table at Twilley, wondering if he could hear the voice on the phone.

“Actually, I don’t. I’m in the middle of something here. How’d you get this number?”

“Information on Catalina. I called the number and your wife answered. She gave me your cell. That a problem?”

“No, no problem. But I can’t talk now.”

“When can we talk? It’s important. Something’s come up that I really want to talk -”

“Just call me later. In an hour.”

McCaleb closed the phone and put it down on the table. He looked at it, half expecting McEvoy to call back right away. Reporters were like that.

“Terry, everything all right?”

He looked up at Winston.

“Yeah, fine. My charter tomorrow. He wanted to know about the weather.”

He looked at Twilley.

“What was your question again?”

“Do you know Jack McEvoy? The reporter who called Captain Hitchens.”

McCaleb paused, looking at Winston and then back at Twilley.

“Yeah, I know him. You know I know him.”

“That’s right, the Poet case. You had a piece of that.”

“A small piece.”

“When was the last time you talked to McEvoy?”

“Well, that would’ve been, let’s see… that would have been a couple days ago.”

Winston visibly stiffened. McCaleb looked over at her.

“Relax, would you, Jaye? I ran into McEvoy at the Storey trial. I went up there to talk to Bosch. McEvoy’s covering it for New Times and he said hello – I hadn’t talked to him in five years. And I did not tell him what I was doing or what I was working on. In fact, at the time I saw him Bosch wasn’t even a suspect.”

“Well, did he see you with Bosch?”

“I’m sure he did. Everybody did. There’s as much media up there as there was for O. J. Did he specifically mention me to your captain?”

“If he did, Hitchens didn’t tell me.”

“All right, then, if it wasn’t you and it wasn’t me, where else did the leak come from?”

“That’s what we are asking you,” Twilley said. “Before we come into this case we want to know the lay of the land and who’s talking to who.”

McCaleb didn’t reply. He was getting claustrophobic. Between the conversation and Twilley being in his face, and the people standing around in the small restaurant waiting for tables, he was beginning to feel like he couldn’t breathe.

“What about this bar you went to last night?” Friedman asked.

McCaleb leaned back and looked over at him.

“What about it?”

“Jaye told us what you told her. You specifically asked about Bosch and Gunn there, right?”

“Yeah, right. And what? You think the bartender then jumped on the phone and called the New Times and asked for Jack McEvoy? All because I showed her a picture of Bosch? Give me a fucking break.”

“Hey, it’s a media-conscious town. People are plugged in. People sell stories, info, data all the time.”

McCaleb shook his head, refusing to buy into the possibility that the bartender in the vest had enough intelligence to put together what he was doing and to then make a call to a reporter.