Michael Connelly - Blood Work

“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 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 Arrango 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?”