The problem was that homicide egos were often unchecked to the point that some detectives extended the view they had of their adversaries to those who wanted to help them-fellow investigators, especially FBI agents. No homicide cop on a stalled-out case wants to be told that maybe someone else-particularly a fed from Quantico -might be able to help or could do it better. It had been McCaleb’s experience that when a cop finally gave up and put a case into cold storage, he secretly didn’t want anyone taking it out and proving him wrong by solving it. As an FBI agent McCaleb was almost never asked into a case or called for advice by the lead detective. It was always the supervisor’s idea. The supervisor didn’t care about egos or hurt feelings. The supervisor cared about clearing cases and improving statistical reports. And so the bureau would be called and McCaleb would come in and have to do the dance with the lead detective. Sometimes it was the smooth dance of coordinated partners. More often it was the hard tango. Toes got stepped on, egos got bruised. On more than one occasion McCaleb suspected that a detective he was working with was holding back information or was secretly pleased when McCaleb was unsuccessful in helping identify a suspect or bringing closure to a case. It was part of the petty territorial bullshit of the law enforcement world. Sometimes consideration of the victim or the victim’s family wasn’t even on the plate. It was dessert. And sometimes there was no dessert.
McCaleb was pretty sure he was facing a hard tango with the LAPD. It didn’t matter that they had apparently hit the wall with the Gloria Torres investigation and could use the help. It was territorial. And to make matters worse, he wasn’t even with the FBI anymore. He was going in naked, without a badge. All he had with him when he arrived at seven-thirty on Tuesday morning at the West Valley Division was his leather bag and a box of doughnuts. He was going to be dancing the hard tango without music.
McCaleb had chosen his arrival time because he knew that most detectives started early so they could get done early. It was the time when he had the best chance of catching the two assigned to the Gloria Torres case in their office. Graciela had given him their names. Arrango and Walters. McCaleb didn’t know them, but he had met their commanding officer, Lieutenant Dan Buskirk, a few years earlier on the Code Killer case. But it was a superficial relationship. McCaleb didn’t know what Buskirk thought about him. He decided, though, that it would be best to follow protocol and start with Buskirk and then, hopefully, get to Arrango and Walters.
West Valley Division was on Owensmouth Street in Reseda. It seemed to be an odd place for a police station. Most of the LAPD’s stations were placed in the tough areas where police attention was needed most. They had concrete walls erected at the entranceways to guard against drive-by shootings. But West Valley was different. There were no barriers. The station was in a bucolic, middle-class, residential setting. There was a library on one side and a public park on the other, plenty of parking at the front curb. Across the street was a row of signature San Fernando Valley ranch houses.
After the cab dropped him off out front, McCaleb entered through the main lobby, threw an easy salute at one of the uniformed officers behind the counter and headed toward the hallway to the left. He showed no hesitation. He knew it led to the detective bureau because most of the city’s police divisions were laid out the same way.
The uniform didn’t stop him and this encouraged McCaleb. Maybe it was the box of doughnuts but he took it to mean he still had at least some of the
After entering the detective bureau, he came to another counter. By pressing against it and leaning over, he could look to the left and through the glass window of the small office he knew belonged to the detective lieutenant. It was empty.
“Can I help you?”
He straightened up and looked at the young detective who had approached the counter from a nearby desk. Probably a trainee assigned counter duty. Usually, they used old men from the neighborhood who volunteered their time or cops assigned light duty because of injury or disciplinary action.
“I was hoping to see Lieutenant Buskirk. Is he here?”
“He’s in a meeting at Valley bureau. Can I help you with something?”
That meant Buskirk was in Van Nuys at the Valley-wide command office. McCaleb’s plan to start with him was out the window. He could now wait for Buskirk or leave and come back. But go where? The library? There wasn’t even a nearby coffee shop he could walk to. He decided to take his chances with Arrango and Walters. He wanted to keep moving.
“How about Arrango or Walters in homicide?”
