Michael Connelly - Blood Work

“When will I hear from you?”

“As soon as we know what we can do for you,” Arrango said. “Give me a number, we’ll be in touch.”

McCALEB STOOD OUTSIDE the station’s lobby waiting for the cab to show. He was steaming about how he had allowed Arrango to play him. Guys like Arrango got off on holding something out to a person and then snatching it away. McCaleb had always known people like Arrango-on both sides of the law.

But there was nothing he could have done about it. For now it was Arrango’s show. McCaleb wasn’t really expecting to hear from him again. He knew that he would have to call him for an answer. That was how the game was played. McCaleb decided he would give it until the next morning before he would call.

When the cab got there, McCaleb got in the back behind the driver. It was a way of discouraging conversation. He checked the name on the dashboard license card and saw it was Russian and unpronounceable. He pulled the small notebook out of his bag and gave the driver the address for the Sherman Market in Canoga Park. They headed north on Reseda Boulevard and then west on Sherman Way until they came to the small market near the intersection of Winnetka Avenue.

The cab pulled into the lot in front of the small store. The place was nondescript, unimpressive, its plate-glass windows plastered with brightly colored sale signs. It looked like a thousand other mini-markets in the city. Except someone had decided that this one was worth robbing and that it was worth killing two people in order to accomplish that goal. Before getting out, McCaleb studied the signs covering the windows. They blocked off a view of the interior. He knew that was probably the reason the shooter had chosen this store. Even if passing motorists glanced over, they wouldn’t see what was going on inside.

Finally, he opened the door and got out. He stepped to the driver’s window and told the man to wait for him. As he went into the store, he heard the tinkling of a bell from above the door. The cash register counter depicted in the video was set up near the back wall directly across from the door. An old woman stood back behind the counter. She was staring at McCaleb and she looked scared. She was Asian. McCaleb realized who she might be.

Looking around as if he had come in with a purpose other than to gawk, he saw the display racks full of candy and picked out a Hershey’s bar. He stepped to the counter and placed it down, noticing that the glass top of the case was still cracked. The full realization that he was in the same spot where Glory Torres had stood and smiled at Mr. Kang then hit him. He looked up at the old woman with a pained expression on his face and nodded.

“Anything else?”

“No, just this.”

She rang it up and he paid her. He studied her hesitant movements. She knew he wasn’t from the neighborhood or a regular customer. She still was not at ease. She probably never would be.

When she gave him his change, McCaleb noticed that the watch she wore on her wrist had a wide, black rubber wristband and a large face. It was a man’s watch and it dwarfed her tiny, seemingly fragile wrist. He had seen the watch before. It had been on Chan Ho Kang’s wrist in the surveillance video. McCaleb remembered focusing on the watch as the video depicted the wounded Kang scrambling for purchase on the counter and then finally falling to the floor.

“Are you Mrs. Kang?” McCaleb asked.

She stopped what she was doing at the register and looked at him.

“Yes. I know you?”

“No. It’s just… I heard about what happened here. To your husband. I’m sorry.”

She nodded.

“Yes, thank you.” Then, seemingly needing an explanation or salve for her wounds, she added, “The only way to keep evil out is to not unlock door. We can’t do that. We must have business.”

Now McCaleb nodded. It was probably something her husband had told her when she worried about his operating a cash business in a violent city.

He thanked her and left, the bell ringing overhead again as he went through the door. He got back in the cab and appraised the front of the market again. It made no sense to him. Why this place? He thought of the video. The shooter’s hand grabbing the cash. He couldn’t have gotten much. McCaleb wished he knew more about the crime, more of the details.

The phone on the wall to the right of the store’s windows caught his eye. It was the one the unidentified Good Samaritan had apparently used. He wondered if it had been processed for prints after they realized he wasn’t coming forward. Probably not. By then it was too late. It was a long shot anyway.

“Where to?” the driver said, his accent discernible in only two syllables.

McCaleb leaned forward to give the man an address but hesitated. He drummed his fingers on the plastic backing of the front seat and thought for a moment.

“Keep the meter running. I’ve got to make a couple calls first.”

He got out again and headed to the pay phone, once more taking his notebook out. He looked up a number and charged the call to his card. It was answered right away.

“ Times, Russell.”

“Did you say Times or Slimes ?”

“Funny, who is this?”

“Keisha, it’s Terry McCaleb.”

“Hey, how’re you doing, man?”

“I’m fine. I wanted to thank you for that story. I should’ve called sooner. But it was nice.”

“Hey, you’re cool. Nobody else ever calls to thank me for anything.”

“Well, I’m not that cool. I was also calling because I need a favor. You got your terminal on?”

“You really know how to spoil a good thing. Yes, my terminal is on. What’s up?”

“Well, I’m looking for something but I’m not sure how to find it. You think you could do one of those key-word searches for me? I’m looking for stories that would be about a robber who shoots people.”

She laughed.

“That’s it?” she said. “You know how often people get shot up in robberies? This is L.A., you know.”

“Yeah, I know, that was stupid. Okay, how about adding in ski mask. And maybe only go back about eighteen months. Think that will narrow it?”

“Maybe.”

He heard her keyboard start clicking as she tapped into the newspaper’s computerized library of story files. By using key words like robbery and ski mask and shooting she would be able to draw up all stories that had contained those words.

“So what’s going on, Terry? I thought you were retired.”

“I am.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. This is like the old days. Are you doing some kind of investigation?”

“Sort of. I’m checking something for a friend and the LAPD’s being the LAPD. And it’s worse when you don’t have a badge.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s not newsworthy yet, Keisha. If it turns out that way, you’ll be the first I let know.”

She blew out her breath in exasperation.

“I hate it when you guys do that,” she protested. “I mean, why should I help you when you won’t let me decide whether something’s a story or not? I’m the newspaper reporter, not you.”

“I know, I know. I guess what I’m saying is that l just want to keep this to myself until I see what is what. I’ll tell you about it after that. I promise, first crack at it. It probably won’t pan out, but I’ll tell you one way or the other. Did you get anything?”

“Yes,” she said in a mock pout. “Six hits in the last eighteen months.”

“Six? What are they?”

“Six stories. I’ll read you the headlines and you tell me if you think you want me to call up the stories.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, here goes. ‘Two Shot in Robbery Attempt,’ then we have ‘Man Shot, Robbed at ATM.’ After that we have ‘Deputies Seek Help in ATM Shooting.’ Let’s see, the next three look like one related case. The headlines are ‘Store Owner, Customer Shot in Robbery,’ followed by ‘Second Victim Dies; Was Times Employee’-oh, shit, I never heard about that. I’ll have to read this one myself-and the last one is ‘Police Seek Good Samaritan.’ Those are the six.”