A Darkness More Than Night - Michael Connelly [118]
“That was part of the deal. Bosch didn’t care what time it was. And actually, the procedure was that I would page him and then he’d call in.”
“And that’s what happened that last night?”
“Yeah, I paged and Bosch called in. I told him we had Gunn again and he came down to try to talk to him. I tried to tell him to wait until morning ’cause the guy was on his ass drunk — Gunn, I mean — but Harry came down anyway. Why are you asking so much about Harry Bosch?”
Winston didn’t answer so McCaleb jumped in.
“We’re not. We’re asking about Gunn.”
“Well, that’s all I know. Can I go home now? It’s been a long one.”
“Aren’t they all,” Winston said. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
They stepped away from the counter and walked out to the front steps.
“What do you think?” Winston asked.
“He sounded legit to me. But you know what, let’s watch the employee lot for a few minutes.”
“Why?”
“Humor me. Let’s see what the sergeant drives home.”
“You’re wasting my time, Terry.”
They got into McCaleb’s Cherokee anyway and drove around the block until they came to the entrance-exit of the Hollywood station employee parking lot. McCaleb drove fifty yards past it and parked in front of a fire hydrant. He adjusted the side-view mirror so he could see any car that left the lot. They sat and waited in silence for a couple minutes until Winston spoke.
“So if we are what we drive, what’s this make you?”
McCaleb smiled.
“Never thought about it. A Cherokee . . . I guess that makes me the last of a breed or something.”
He glanced at her then looked back at the mirror.
“Yeah, and what about this coating of dust on everything, what does that —”
“Here we go. Think it’s him.”
McCaleb watched a car leave the exit and turn left in their direction.
“Coming this way.”
Neither of them moved. The car drove up and stopped right next to them. McCaleb looked over casually and his eyes met Zucker’s. The cop lowered his passenger-side window. McCaleb had no choice. He lowered his.
“You’re parked in front of a plug there, Detective. Don’t get a ticket.”
McCaleb nodded. Zucker saluted with two fingers and drove off. McCaleb noted that he was driving a Crown Victoria with commercial bumpers and wheels. It was a secondhand patrol car, the kind you pick up at auction for four hundred bucks and slap on an $ 89 . 95 paint job.
“Don’t we look like a couple of assholes,” Winston said.
“Yeah.”
“So what’s your theory about that car?”
“He’s either an honest man or he drives the beater to work because he doesn’t want people to see the Porsche.”
He paused.
“Or the Z 3 .”
He turned to her and smiled.
“Funny, Terry. Now what? Eventually, I have to get some real work done today. And I’m supposed to meet with your bureau buddies this morning as well.”
“Stick with me — and they aren’t my buddies.”
He started the Cherokee and pulled away from the curb.
“You really think this car’s dirty?” he asked.
36
The post office on Wilcox was a large World War II–era building with twenty-five-foot-high ceilings and murals depicting bucolic scenes of brotherhood and good deeds covering the upper walls. As they walked in, McCaleb’s eyes scanned the murals but not for their artistic or philosophic merit. He counted three small cameras mounted above the public areas of the office. He pointed them out to Winston. They had a chance.
They waited in line and when it was their turn Winston flashed her badge and asked for the on-site security officer. They were directed to a door next to a row of vending machines and they waited nearly five minutes before it was opened and a small black man with gray hair looked out.
“Mr. Lucas?” Winston asked.
“That’s right,” he said with a smile.
Winston showed the badge once more and introduced McCaleb simply by name. McCaleb had told her on the way over from Hollywood station that calling him an associate wasn’t working.
“We’re working a homicide investigation, Mr. Lucas, and an important piece of evidence is a money order that was purchased here and probably mailed here on December twenty-second.”
“The twenty-second? That’s right