Michael Connelly - The Poet

"You're wrong," Thorson interrupted loudly. "We already checked this guy out. You're not the first to come up with him, McEvoy. You're not that special. We checked Gladden out and he's not our guy, okay? We're not stupid. Now drop it and go the fuck back to Denver. When we get the real guy, you'll know."

"How do you mean you checked Gladden out?"

"I'm not going into it. We're busy and you're no longer inside. You're out and you're staying out. Just don't call the pager anymore. Like I said, it gets annoying."

He hung up before I could say another word. I slammed the phone into its cradle and it bounced down to the floor. I was tempted to page Rachel again immediately but thought better of it. What could she be doing, I wondered, that would have made her ask Thorson to call me instead of calling me herself? A crushing feeling began to form in my chest and many thoughts went through my mind. Had she merely been baby-sitting me while I was on the case with them? Watching me while I watched them? Had everything just been an act for her?

I broke away from it. There was no way to know the answers until I spoke to her. I had to guard against letting my impressions of Thorson's comments speak for her. Instead, I began to analyze what Thorson had told me. He said Rachel could not call me. She was tied up. What could that mean? Did they have a suspect in custody and she, as lead investigator, was conducting the interrogation? Was the suspect under surveillance? If so, she might be in a car and away from a telephone.

Or by asking Thorson to call me was she sending me a message, communicating something she didn't have the guts to tell me herself?

The nuances of the situation were unreadable to me. I gave up on a deeper meaning and thought about the surface. I thought about Thorson's reaction to my mention of William Gladden. He'd showed no surprise at the name and seemed to easily dismiss it. But in replaying the conversation in my mind, I realized that whether I was right or wrong about Gladden, Thorson would have played it the same way. If I was right, he would have wanted to deflect me. If I was wrong, he would not have missed the opportunity to let me know.

The next thought I focused on was the possibility that I was right about Gladden and that the bureau had somehow made a mistake in dismissing him as a suspect. If this was the case, the detective in Los Angeles could be in danger and not even know it.

It took me two calls to the Los Angeles Police Department to get a number for Detective Thomas at the Hollywood Division. But when I called the number it went unanswered and kicked over to the station's front desk. The officer who answered told me Thomas was unavailable. He would not tell me why or when the detective would be available. I decided not to leave a message.

I paced the room for a few minutes after hanging up and wrestled with thoughts about what to do. I came to the same conclusion from every angle I tried. There was only one way of learning the answers to the questions I had about Gladden and I knew that was to go to Los Angeles. To go to Detective Thomas. I had nothing to lose. My stories were filed and I was off the case. I made some calls and booked the next Southwest flight from Phoenix to Burbank. The airline agent told me Burbank was just as close to Hollywood as L.A. International.

The front-desk clerk was the same man who had checked all of us in on Saturday.

"You're leaving on the fly, too, I see."

I nodded, realizing he was talking about the FBI agents.

"Yes," I said. "They got a head start, though."

He smiled.

"I saw you on TV the other night."

At first perplexed, I then realized what he meant. The scene out at the funeral home. Me in the FBI shirt. I knew then that the clerk thought I was an FBI agent. I didn't bother to correct him.

"The boss man wasn't too happy about that," I said.

"Well, you people must get that a lot when you swoop into town like that. Anyway, I hope you catch him."

"Yeah, we do, too."

He went about processing my bill. He asked if I had any room charges and I told him about the room service and the items I had taken from the bar.

"Listen," I said. "I guess you also have to charge me for a pillowcase. I had to buy clothes here and didn't have any luggage and…"

I held up the pillowcase in which I had packed my few belongings and he chuckled at my predicament. But figuring what to charge me caused confusion and finally he just told me it was on the house.

"I understand you people have to move quickly," he said. "The others didn't even have time to check out. Just blew out of town like a Texas tornado, I guess."

"Well," I said smiling. "I hope they at least paid."

"Oh, yes. Agent Backus called from the airport and said just to keep it on the credit card and send him the receipts. But that's no problem. We aim to please."

I just looked at him, thinking. Deciding.

"I'm going to be catching up with them tonight," I finally said. "You want me to take the receipts?"

He looked up at me from the paperwork in front of him. I could see his hesitation. I held my hand up in a not-to-worry fashion.

"It's all right. It was just a thought. I'll see them tonight and thought it might speed things along. You know, save the postage."

I didn't know what I was saying but I was already lacking confidence in my decision and wanted to back away.

"Well," the clerk said, "I don't really see the harm in it. I've got their paperwork in an envelope ready to go. I guess I can trust you as much as the mailman."

He smiled and now I smiled back.

"The same guy signs our checks, right?"

"Uncle Sam," he said brightly. "Be right back."

He disappeared into a back office and I looked around the front desk and lobby, halfway expecting Thorson and Backus and Walling to jump out from behind the columns and scream. "See? We can't trust your kind!"

But nobody jumped out from anywhere and soon the clerk was back with a manila envelope he handed across the counter to me with my own hotel bill.

"Thanks," I said. "They'll appreciate it."

"No problem," the clerk said. "Thank you for choosing to stay with us, Agent McEvoy."

I nodded and shoved the envelope into my computer bag like a thief, then headed to the door.

The plane was climbing toward thirty thousand feet before I had a chance to open the envelope. There were several pages of bills. One itemized breakdown for each agent's room. This was what I counted on and I immediately was pulled to the bill with Thorson's name on it and began to study the phone charges.

The bill showed no calls to the Maryland area code, 301, where Warren lived. However, there was a call to the 213 area code. Los Angeles. I knew it was not inconceivable that Warren had gone to L.A. to pitch his story to his former editors. He then could have written it from there. The call had been made at 12:41 A.M. Sunday, just an hour or so after Thorson had apparently checked into the hotel in Phoenix.

After using my Visa card to pop the air phone from the seatback in front of me, I slid the credit card through and punched in the number listed on the hotel bill. The call was answered immediately by a woman who said, "New Otani Hotel, may I help you?"

Momentarily confused, I recovered before she hung up and asked for the room of Michael Warren. I was connected but there was no answer. I realized it was too early for him to be in his room. I depressed the receiver button and called information to get the number of the Los Angeles Times. When I called that number I asked for the newsroom and then asked for Warren. I was connected.

"Warren," I said.

It was a statement, a fact. A verdict. For Thorson as well as Warren.

"Yes, can I help you?"