McCaleb got out and walked up to the car. There were no other exterior markings to help him identify the agent who had driven it. But whoever had been driving the car made it easy for him. Driving east to the meeting against a rising sun, the driver had turned down the windshield visor and left it down. All the FBI agents McCaleb had ever known kept the government gas card assigned to their car clipped to the visor for easy access. This driver was no exception.
McCaleb looked at the gas card and got the serial number off it. He went back to Lockridge’s car.
“What’s with the car?” Buddy asked.
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Find a phone.”
“Shoulda guessed.”
Five minutes later they were at a service station with a bank of phones on the side wall. Lockridge pulled up to the phones, lowered his window so he would be able to eavesdrop and shut off the car. Before getting out, McCaleb opened his wallet and gave him a twenty-dollar bill.
“Go fill it up. We’re going back up to the desert, I think.”
“Shit.”
“You said you were free all day.”
“I am, but who wants to go to the desert? Don’t any clues point to the beach, for cryin’ out loud?”
McCaleb just laughed at him and got out of the car with his phone book.
At the phone, McCaleb called the field office in Westwood and asked to be transferred to the garage. The call was picked up after twelve rings.
“G’age.”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Roofs.”
“Oh, okay,” McCaleb said, remembering the man. “Rufus, this is Convey up on fifteen. I’ve got a question you might be able to answer for me.”
“Shoot, man.”
The familiarity McCaleb had put in his voice had apparently worked. He remembered Rufus and had never been much impressed with his intelligence. This was reflected in the poor upkeep of the federal fleet.
“I found a gas card on the floor up here and it’s supposed to be in somebody’s car down there. Who’s got card eighty-one? Can you look it up?”
“Uh… etty-one?”
“Yes, Roof, eight-one.”
There was a spell of silence while the garage man apparently looked through a log.
“Well, that’s Misser Spence. He got that one.”
McCaleb didn’t respond. Gilbert Spencer was the second-highest-ranking agent in Los Angeles. Rank notwithstanding, McCaleb had never thought much of him as an investigative team leader. But the fact that he was meeting with Jaye Winston and her captain and who knew who else at the Star Center came as a shock. He began to get a better idea why he had been kicked off the case.
“ ’Lo?”
“Uh, yeah, Rufus, thanks a lot. That was eighty-one, right?”
“Yuh. Tha’s Agent Spence cah.”
“Okay, I’ll get him the card.”
“I don’t know. I see his car ain’ here right now.”
“Okay, don’t worry about it. Thanks, Roof.”
McCaleb hung up the phone and immediately picked it up again. Using his calling card number, he called Vernon Carruthers in Washington. It was just about lunchtime there and he hoped he had not missed him.
“This is Vernon.”
McCaleb blew out a sigh.
“It’s Terry.”
“Man, where the hell you been? I tried to give you a damn heads-up on Saturday and you wait two days to call me back.”
“I know, I know. I fucked up. But I hear you got something.”
“Damn tootin’.”
“What, Vernon, what?”
“I gotta be careful. I get the feeling there’s a need-to-know list on this and your name’s-”
“-not on it. Yeah, I know. I already found that out. But this is my car, Vernon, and nobody’s going to drive away without me. So you’re going to tell me, what did you find that would bring the assistant special agent in charge of the Los Angeles field office out of his little room and into the field, probably for the first time this year?”
“ ’Course I’m going to tell you. I got my twenty-five in. What are they going to do to me? Kick me out and then have to pay me double-time witness fees to testify in all the cases I got lined up?”
“So give it to me then.”
“Well, you really stuck your dick in it this time. I lasered the slug this Winston gal sent me and got an eighty-three percent match on a good-sized frag they dug out of the head of one Donald Kenyon back in November. That’s why you got the A-SAC’s nuts in an uproar out there.”
McCaleb whistled.
“Damn, not in my ear, man,” Carruthers protested.
“Sorry. Was it a Federal FMJ-the one from Kenyon?”
“No, actually, it was a frangible. A Devastator. You know what that is?”
“That’s what Reagan got nailed with at the Hilton, right?”
“Right. Little charge in the tip. Bullet is supposed to fragment. But it didn’t with Ronnie. He got lucky. Kenyon wasn’t lucky.”
McCaleb tried to think about what this might mean. The same gun, the HK P7, had been used in the three murders, Kenyon, Cordell and Torres. But between Kenyon and Cordell the ammunition had changed from a frangible to a hardball. Why?
“Now, remember,” Carruthers was saying, “you didn’t hear this stuff from me.”
“I know. But tell me something. After you got the match, what did you do, go to Lewin or do some checking first?”
Joel Lewin was Carruthers’s by-the-book boss.
“What you’re asking is if I got anything to send you, am I right?”
