Blood Work полностью

Lockridge was a wharf rat. An aging surfer and beach bum, he lived a low-cost, low-maintenance life on his boat, subsisting mostly on money from odd jobs around the marina like boat sitting and hull scraping. The two had met a year earlier, shortly after Lockridge had moved his boat into the marina. McCaleb had been awakened by a middle-of-the-night harmonica concerto. When he got up and left his boat to investigate, he traced the sound to a drunken Lockridge lying in the cockpit of the Double-Down. He was playing a harmonica to a tune only he heard on his earphones. Despite McCaleb’s complaint that night, the two had become friends over time. This was largely due to the fact that there were no other live-aboards in that area of the marina. Each was the other’s only full-time neighbor. Buddy had kept an eye on The Following Sea while McCaleb had been in the hospital. He also often offered McCaleb rides to the grocery store or a nearby mall because he knew Terry wasn’t supposed to drive. In turn, McCaleb had Lockridge over for dinner every week or so. They usually talked about their shared interest in the blues, debated sailboats versus power boats and sometimes pulled out McCaleb’s old file boxes and theoretically solved some of the cases. Lockridge was always fascinated by the details of McCaleb’s stories about the bureau and his investigations.

“I’ve got to make a phone call now, Bud,” McCaleb now called over. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sure. Make your call. Take care of business.”

He waved and disappeared down the hatchway into his boat’s cabin. McCaleb shrugged and made his call after looking up the number he had for Jaye Winston in his book. After a few seconds he was connected.

“Jaye, it’s Terry McCaleb. You remember me?”

After a beat, she said, “ ’Course I do. How is it going, Terry? I heard you got the new ticker.”

“Yeah and I’m doing okay. How about you?”

“Same old same old.”

“Well, you think you’ll have a few minutes if I swing by this morning? You got a case I want to talk about.”

“You on the private ticket now, Terry?”

“Nah. Just doin’ a favor for a friend.”

“Which one is it, the case I mean?”

“James Cordell. The ATM case on January twenty-two.”

Winston made a hmmph sound but didn’t say anything.

“What?” McCaleb asked.

“Well, it’s funny. That case has gone cold on me but now you’re the second person to call about it in two days.”

Shit, McCaleb thought. He knew who had called.

“Keisha Russell from the Times ?”

“Yup.”

“That’s on me. I asked her for the clips on Cordell. But I wouldn’t tell her why. That’s why she called you. Fishing.”

“That’s what I thought. I played dumb. So who is the friend who talked you into this?”

McCaleb recounted how he had been asked to look into the murder of Gloria Torres and how that ultimately led him to the Cordell case. He acknowledged that he was getting no help from the LAPD and that Winston was his only alternate route into the case. He left out the fact that his new heart had come from Gloria Torres.

“So did I hit it right?” he asked at the end. “Are they connected?”

Winston hesitated but then confirmed his assumption. She also said her case was in a holding pattern at the moment, pending new developments.

“Listen, Jaye, I’ll be right up front with you. What I’m hoping to do is come out, maybe take a look at the books and whatever else you care to show me, then be able to go back to Graciela Rivers and tell her all that could be done has been done or is being done. I’m not trying to be a hero or to show anybody up.”

Winston didn’t say anything.

“What do you think?” McCaleb finally asked. “You got some time today?”

“Not a lot. Can you hold on?”

“Sure.”

McCaleb was put on hold for a minute. He paced around the deck and looked over the side at the dark water his boat floated on.

“Terry?”

“Yo.”

“Look, I’ve got court at eleven downtown. That means I have to be out of here by ten. Can you make it before then?”

“Sure. How’s nine or nine-fifteen?”

“That’ll work.”

“Okay, and thanks.”

“Look, Terry, I owe you one, so I’m doing this. But there’s nothing here. It’s just some scumbag out there with a gun. This is three-strikes shit, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got another call on hold here. We’ll talk when you get here.”

Before McCaleb got ready to go, he stepped up onto the dock and walked over to the Double-Down. The boat was the marina eye-sore. Lockridge had more possessions than the boat was built to hold. His three surfboards, his two bikes and his Zodiac inflatable were stored on the deck, making the boat look like a floating yard sale.

The hatch was still open but McCaleb saw and heard no activity. He called out and waited. It was bad marina etiquette to step onto a boat uninvited.

Eventually, Buddy Lockridge’s head and shoulders came up through the hatch. His hair was combed and he was dressed now.

“Buddy, what do you have going for today?”