McCaleb had brought the hard copy of the enhanced video frame in with him along with his notebook and phone book. He had told Sieve Kang what he planned to do but was still uncomfortable carrying it out in front of him. He was about to impersonate a police officer, which was a crime, even if that officer was Eddie Arrango.
From his phone book he got the number for the Central Communications Center in downtown L.A. He’d had the number since his days with the L.A. field office, when he would at times need to coordinate intra-agency activities. The CCC was the dark, cavernous dispatch center four floors below City Hall from which all police and fire department radio communications were transmitted. It was also where the clock was from which the official time of the murders of Gloria Torres and Chan Ho Kang had been set.
On the drive from Hollywood to the market McCaleb had pulled out the Torres file and gotten Arrango’s badge number from the homicide report. He now placed the watch Steve Kang had given him on the arm of the couch and dialed the nonemergency number of the CCC. An operator answered in four rings.
“This is Arrango, West Valley homicide,” McCaleb said. “That’s serial one four one one. I’m not on the radio. I just need a ten-twenty for a surveillance commencement. And could you give me the seconds with that, too?”
“Seconds? Why, you’re a precise man, Detective Arrango.”
“Precisely.”
“Hold one.”
McCaleb looked down at the watch. As the operator spoke, he noted the watch time was 5:14:42P.M.
“That’s seventeen fourteen thirty-eight.”
“Gotcha,” he said. “Thanks.”
He hung up and looked at Steve Kang.
“Your father’s watch is running four seconds ahead of the CCC clock.”
Kang narrowed his eyes and he came around the side of the couch to look over McCaleb as he wrote numbers down in his notebook, referred back to specific times listed on the timeline he had put together earlier, and then did the math.
They both arrived at the same conclusion at the same time.
“That means…”
Steve Kang didn’t finish. McCaleb noticed that he glanced over at his mother in the hallway and then back at the time McCaleb had underlined in the notebook.
“That bastard!” he said in a hateful whisper.
“He’s more than that,” McCaleb said.
Outside, Buddy Lockridge started the Taurus as soon as he saw McCaleb leave the house. McCaleb jumped in.
“Let’s go.”
“We giving the kid a ride back?”
“No, he’s got to talk to his mother. Let’s go.”
“Okay, okay. Where to?”
“Back to the boat.”
“The boat? You can’t go there, Terry. Those people might still be there. Or they might be watching it.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have no choice.”
LOCKRIDGE DROPPED McCALEB off at the curb on Cabrillo Way, about half a mile from the marina. He walked in the rest of the way, keeping to the shadows cast by the small shops that lined the boulevard. The plan was for Buddy to leave his keys in the Taurus and then go to his boat as if everything about his life was routine and normal. If he saw anything unusual, anyone hanging around the marina who wasn’t recognizable, he was to flick on the mast light on the Double-Down. McCaleb would be able to see the light from a good distance away and he would keep clear.
When the marina came into sight, McCaleb’s eyes scanned the points of the dozens of masts. It was dark now and he saw no lights. Things looked good. He glanced around and spotted a pay phone outside a mini-market and went to it to call Lockridge anyway. It also gave him a chance to put the heavy leather bag down for a spell. Buddy picked up the phone right away.
“Is it safe?” McCaleb asked, remembering the line from a movie he had enjoyed some years before.
“Think so,” Buddy said. “I don’t see anyone and nobody grabbed me on the way in. I didn’t see anything that looked like an unmarked cop car out in the lot, either.”
“What’s my boat look like?”
There was a silence while Buddy took a look.
“It’s still there. Looks like they got yellow tape strung between the piers, like you’re not supposed to go on it or something.”
“Okay, Bud, I’m coming in. I’m going to go into the laundry first and stick my bag in one of the dryers. If I go to the boat and get jumped by them, you come get the bag and sit on it until I get out. You okay with that?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, listen. If everything goes okay on the boat, I won’t be staying long, so I’m going to say this now, thanks for everything, Buddy, you’ve been a big help.”
“No sweat, man. I don’t care about what these bastards are trying to do to you. I know you’re cool.”
McCaleb thanked him again and hung up, then picked up his bag and started carrying it under his arm as he headed toward the marina. He first ducked into the laundry and found an empty dryer in which to stow the bag. He then made it all the way to the boat without problem. Before unlocking the slider he took one last look around the marina and saw nothing amiss, nothing that raised an alarm. He noticed the dark form of Buddy Lockridge sitting in the cockpit of the Double-Down. He heard a wah-wah tremolo from a harmonica and he nodded toward the shadow figure. He then slid open the door.
The boat smelled stuffy and stale but there was still a lingering scent of perfume. He guessed Jaye Winston had left it behind. He didn’t turn on a light but rather reached for the flashlight clamped on the underside of the chart table. He flicked it on and held the light down at his side and pointing at the floor. He headed below, knowing he had to move quickly. He just wanted to grab enough clothes, drugs and medical supplies to last him a few days. He figured, one way or the other, it would be all the time he would get.
He opened one of the hallway hatches and got out the large duffel bag. He then went into the master stateroom and gathered the clothes he would need. Doing it surreptitiously by flashlight slowed the process down but finally he had what he needed.
When he was done, he carried the bag across the hallway to the head to gather drugs, medical supplies and his clipboard. He put the open bag on the sink and was about to begin laying in the pharmaceutical boxes and vials when he realized something. When he had crossed the hallway, there had been a light on topside. The galley light. Or maybe one of the overheads in the salon. He momentarily froze and tried to listen for any sound from above while he reviewed his own movements. He was sure he had not put on a light when he had come in.
He listened nearly half a minute but there was nothing. He quietly stepped back into the hallway and looked up the stairway. He stood stock still and listened again while trying to weigh his options. The only way out besides going back up the stairs was the deck hatch in the roof of the forward stateroom. But it would be foolish to think that whoever was topside didn’t have that escape route covered.
“Buddy,” he called. “Is that you?”
The answer came after a long beat of silence.
“No, Terry, it’s not Buddy.”
A female voice. McCaleb recognized it.
“Jaye?”
“Why don’t you come on up?”
He looked back into the head. The flashlight was inside the duffel bag, illuminating little else but its contents. Otherwise he was in the dark.
“I’m coming up.”
She was sitting on the cushioned swivel chair near the teak coffee table. He had apparently gone right past her in the dark. He slid into the matching chair on the other side of the salon.
“Hello, Jaye. How’s it going?”