Raymond was bent over the stern, fishing with a little spinner reel McCaleb had gotten him after they moved to the island. He was looking through the clear water at the moving shapes of the orange garibaldi fish twenty feet below. Buddy Lockridge was sitting in the fighting chair reading the Metro section of the Los Angeles Times. He seemed as relaxed as a summer wave. McCaleb had not yet confronted him with his suspicions that he was the leak. He had been waiting for the right moment.
“Hey, Terror, you see this story?” Lockridge said. “About Bosch giving his testimony yesterday in Van Nuys court?”
“Nope.”
“Man, what they’re hinting at here is that this director’s a serial killer. Sounds like one of your old cases. And here the guy on the witness stand putting the finger on him is a -”
“Buddy, I told you, don’t talk about that. Or did you forget what I said?”
“Okay, sorry. I was just saying, if this ain’t irony I don’t know what is, that’s all.”
“Fine. Leave it at that.”
McCaleb checked his watch again. The clients should have been there at ten. He straightened up and went to the salon door.
“I’ll make some calls,” he said. “I don’t want to be waiting around all day for these people.”
At the little chart table in the boat’s salon he opened a drawer and took out the clipboard where they attached the charter reservations. There were only two pages on it. The current day’s charter and a reservation for the following Saturday. The winter months were slow. He looked at the information on the top sheet. He was unfamiliar with it because Buddy had taken the reservation. The charter was for four men from Long Beach. They were supposed to come over Friday night and stay at the Zane Grey. A four-hour charter – 10 to 2 on Saturday – and then they’d take a late ferry back to overtown. Buddy had taken the organizer’s home number and the name of the hotel as well as a deposit of half the charter fee.
He looked at the list of hotels and phone numbers taped to the chart table and called the Zane Grey first. He quickly learned that no one with the charter organizer’s name – the only one of the four names McCaleb had – was staying at the hotel. He then called the man’s home number and got his wife. She said her husband wasn’t home.
“Well, we’re kind of waiting for him on a boat over here on Catalina. Do you know if he and his friends are on their way?”
There was a long silence.
“Ma’am, you there?”
“Uh, yes, yes. It’s just that, they’re not going fishing today. They told me they canceled that trip. They’re out golfing right now. I can give you my husband’s cell phone if you would like. You could talk -”
“That’s not necessary, ma’am. Have a nice day.”
McCaleb closed his phone. He knew exactly what had happened. Neither he nor Buddy had checked the answering service that handled calls to the phone number they had placed on their charter ads in various phone books and fishing publications. He called the number now, punched in the code and, sure enough, there had been a message waiting since Wednesday. The party canceled the charter. They’d reschedule later.
“Yeah, sure,” McCaleb said.
He erased the message and closed the phone. He felt like throwing it through the glass slider at Buddy’s head but he tried to calm himself. He walked into the little galley and got a quart carton of orange juice out of the cooler. He took it out with him to the stern.
“No charter today,” he said before taking a long drink from the carton.
“Why not?” Raymond asked, his disappointment obvious.
McCaleb wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his long-sleeve T-shirt.
“They canceled.”
Lockridge looked up from the newspaper and McCaleb hit him with a laser stare.
“Well, we keep the deposit, right?” Buddy asked. “I took a two-hundred-dollar deposit on Visa.”
“No, we don’t keep the deposit because they canceled on Wednesday. We’ve both been too busy I guess to check the charter line like we’re supposed to.”
“Ah, fuck! That’s my fault.”
“Buddy, not in front of the boy. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Sorry. Sorry.”
McCaleb continued to stare at him. He had not wanted to talk about the leak to McEvoy until after the charter because he needed Buddy’s help running a four-man fishing party. Now it didn’t matter. Now was the time.
“Raymond,” he said while still staring at Lockridge. “Do you still want to earn your money?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean ‘yes,’ don’t you?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes.”
“Okay, then reel in, hook your line and start taking these rods in and put them in the rack. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
The boy quickly reeled in his line, took off his bait and threw it into the water. He attached the hook to one of the rod’s eyelets and then leaned it in the corner of the stern so he could take it home with him. He liked to practice his casting technique on the rear deck of the house, dropping a rubber practice weight onto the roofs and backyards below.
Raymond started taking the deep-sea rods out of the holders where Buddy had placed them in preparation for the charter. Two by two he took them into the salon and put them in the overhead racks. He had to stand on the couch to do it but it was an old couch in dire need of a new slipcover and McCaleb didn’t care about it.
“Something wrong, Terror?” Buddy tried. “It’s just a charter, man. We knew it was going to be slow this month.”
“It’s not the charter, Bud.”
“Then what? The case?”
McCaleb took a smaller gulp of juice and put the carton down on the gunwale.
“You mean the case I’m not on anymore?”
“I guess. I don’t know. You’re not on it anymore? When did that -”
“No, Buddy, I’m not on it. And there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
He waited for Raymond to move another set of rods into the salon.
“You ever read the New Times, Buddy?”
“You mean that free weekly?”
“Yeah, that free weekly. The New Times, Buddy. Comes out every Thursday. There’s always a stack in the laundry building at the marina. In fact, why am I asking this? I know you read the New Times.”
Lockridge’s eyes suddenly fell to the deck. He looked crestfallen with guilt. He brought one hand up and rubbed his face. He kept it over his eyes when he spoke.
“Terry, I’m sorry. I never thought it would get back to you. What happened?”
“What’s the matter, Uncle Buddy?”
It was Raymond in the door of the salon.
“Raymond, would you go inside and close that door for a few minutes?” McCaleb said. “You can put on the TV. I need to talk to Buddy by myself.”
The boy hesitated, staring the whole time at Buddy covering his face.
“Raymond, please. And take this back to the cooler.”
The boy finally stepped out and took the orange juice carton. He went back in and slid the door closed. McCaleb looked back at Lockridge.
“How could you not think it would get back to me?”
“I don’t know. I just thought nobody would know.”
“Well, you were wrong. And it has caused me a lot of trouble. But most of all it’s a fucking betrayal, Buddy. I just can’t believe you would do something like this.”
McCaleb glanced at the glass door to make sure the boy wasn’t in earshot. There was no sign of Raymond. He must’ve gone down to one of the staterooms. McCaleb realized his breathing was way up. He was so angry he was hyperventilating. He had to end this and calm down.
“Does Graciela have to know about it?” Buddy asked in a pleading voice.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter what she knows. What matters is that we had this relationship and then you do something like this behind my back.”
Lockridge still hid his eyes behind his hand.
“I just didn’t think it would mean that much to you, even if you found out. It was no big deal. I’m -”