Not that anyone could tell much, unless he had his shirt off. He was about thirty pounds lighter but that wasn’t what he wanted to hide. It was the eyes. He had lost that look-the eyes as piercingly hard as bullets. He didn’t want anyone to know he had lost that.
He folded the newspaper clip and put it aside. He tapped his fingers on the desk for a few seconds while brooding over things and then looked at the steel paper spike next to the phone. The number Graciela Rivers had given him was scratched in pencil on the scrap of paper that sat at the top of the stack of notes punctured by the spike.
When he was an agent, he had carried with him a bottomless reservoir of rage for the men he hunted. He had seen firsthand what they had done and he wanted them to pay for the horrible manifestations of their fantasies. Blood debts had to be paid in blood. That was why in the bureau’s serial killer unit the agents called what they did “blood work.” There was no other way to describe it. And so it worked on him, cut at him, every time one didn’t pay. Every time one got away.
What happened to Gloria Torres now cut at him. He was alive because she had been taken away by evil. Graciela had told him the story. Gloria had died for no reason other than that she was in the way of somebody and a cash register. It was a simple, stupid and ghastly reason to die. It somehow put McCaleb in debt. To her and her son, to Graciela, even to himself.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number scratched on the paper. It was late but he didn’t want to wait and he didn’t think she would want him to. She answered in a whisper after only one ring.
“Miss Rivers?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Terry McCaleb. You came by my-”
“Yes.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“No.”
“Well, listen, I wanted to tell you that I, uh, have been thinking about things and I promised you I’d call you back no matter what I decided.”
“Yes.”
There was a hopeful tone in just her one word. It touched his heart.
“Well, this is what I think. My, um, my skills, I guess you’d call them, they’re not really suited to this kind of crime. From what you described about your sister, we’re talking about a random occurrence with a financial motive. A robbery. So it’s different from, you know, the kind of cases I worked for the bureau, the serial cases.”
“I understand.”
The hopefulness was bleeding out.
“No, I’m not saying I’m not going to-you know, that I’m not interested. I’m calling because I am going to go see the police tomorrow and ask about this. But-”
“Thank you.”
“-I don’t know how successful I’m going to be. That’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t want to get your hopes up, is what I’m saying. These things… I don’t know.”
“I understand. Thank you for just being willing to do this. Nobody-”
“Well, I’ll take a look at things,” he said, cutting her off. He didn’t want her thanking him too much. “I don’t know what kind of help or cooperation I’ll get from the L.A. police but I’ll do what I can. I owe your sister at least that much. To try.”
She was silent and he told her he needed to get some additional information about her sister as well as the names of the LAPD detectives on the case. They talked for about ten minutes and when he had all of the information he needed written down in a small notebook, an uneasy silence played across the telephone line.
“Well,” he finally said, “I guess that’s it, then. I’ll call you if I have any other questions or if anything else comes up.”
“Thank you again.”
“Something tells me I should be thanking you. I’m glad I’ll be able to do this. I just hope it helps.”
“Oh, it will. You’ve got her heart. She’ll guide you.”
“Yes,” he said hesitantly, not really understanding what she meant or why he was agreeing. “I’ll call you when I can.”
He hung up and stared at the phone for a few moments, thinking about her last line. Then again he unfolded the newspaper clip with his picture. He studied the eyes for a long time.
Finally, he folded the newspaper clip closed and hid it under some of the paperwork on the desk. He looked up at the girl with the braces and after a few moments nodded. Then he turned off the light.
There was not a single homicide cop working who did not have a healthy ego. It was an absolute job requirement. To do the job, you had to know in your heart that you were up to the task and that you were better, smarter, stronger, meaner, more skilled and more patient than your adversary. You had to flat-out know that you were going to win. And if you had any doubts about that, then you had to back off and work burglaries or take a patrol shift or do something else.
