A Darkness More Than Night

Chapter 26

McCaleb got to El Cochinito at quarter to twelve. He hadn’t been inside the storefront restaurant in Silver Lake in five years but he remembered the place had only a dozen or so tables and they were usually taken quickly at lunchtime. And often those tables were taken by cops. Not because the name of the restaurant was a draw – the Little Pig – but because the food was of high quality and low cost. It had been McCaleb’s experience that cops were highly skilled in finding such establishments among the many restaurants in any city. When he had traveled on assignment for the bureau, he would always ask the local street cops for recommendations on food. He had rarely been disappointed.

While he waited for Winston he carefully studied the menu and planned his meal. In the past year his palate had finally returned with a vengeance. For the first eighteen months of his life after surgery, his sense of taste had deserted him. He had not cared what he ate because it all tasted the same – bland. Even a heavy dousing of habañera sauce on everything from sandwiches to pasta only registered a minor blip on his tongue. But then, slowly, his taste started coming back and it became a second rebirth for him following the transplant itself. He now loved everything Graciela made. He even loved everything he made – and this despite his general ineptitude with anything other than the barbecue grill. He ate everything with a gusto he’d never had before, even before the transplant. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the middle of the night was something he privately savored as much as a trip overtown with Graciela to dine in style at Jozu on Melrose. Consequently, he had started filling out, gaining back the twenty-five pounds he’d lost while his own heart had withered and he’d waited for a new one. He was now back to his pre-illness weight of 180 and food intake, for the first time in four years, was something he had to watch. On his last cardio checkup, his doctor had taken notice and raised a warning. She told him that he had to slow down the intake of calories and fat.

But not at this lunch. He had been waiting a long time for a chance to come to this place. Years earlier he had spent a good bit of time in Florida on a serial case and the only good that had come out of it was his love of Cuban food. When he later transferred to the Los Angeles field office it was hard to find a Cuban restaurant that compared with the places where he had eaten in Ybor City outside of Tampa. Once on an L.A. case he’d come across a patrol cop who he learned was of Cuban descent. McCaleb asked him where he went to eat when he wanted real home cooking. The cop’s answer was El Cochinito. And McCaleb quickly became a regular.

McCaleb decided that studying the menu was a waste of time because he had known all along what he wanted. Lechon asada with black beans and rice, fried bananas and yucca on the side and don’t bother telling the doctor. He just wished Winston would hurry up and get there so he could place his order.

He put the menu aside and thought about Harry Bosch. McCaleb had spent most of the morning on the boat, watching the trial on television. He thought Bosch’s performance on the witness stand had been outstanding. The revelation that Storey had been linked to another death was shocking to McCaleb and apparently to the media horde as well. During the breaks the talking heads in the studio were beside themselves with excitement over the prospect of this new fodder. They cut at one point to the hallway outside the courtroom where J. Reason Fowkkes was being peppered with questions about these new developments. Fowkkes, for probably the only time in his life, was not commenting. The talking heads were left to speculate about this new information and to comment on the methodical yet thoroughly gripping procession of the prosecution’s case.

Still, watching the trial only caused uneasiness within McCaleb. He had a difficult time coming to terms with the idea that the man he had watched so capably describing the aspects and moves of a difficult investigation was also the man he was investigating, the man his gut instincts told him had committed the same kind of crime he was now involved in prosecuting.

At noon, their agreed-upon meeting time, McCaleb looked up from his thoughts to see Jaye Winston come through the restaurant’s front door. She was followed by two men. One was black and one was white and that was the best way to differentiate between them because they wore almost identical gray suits and maroon ties. Before they even got to his table McCaleb knew they were bureau men.

Winston had a look of washed-out resignation on her face.

“Terry,” she said before sitting down, “I want you to meet a couple guys.”

She indicated the black agent first.

“This is Don Twilley and this is Marcus Friedman. They’re with the bureau.”

All three of them pulled out chairs and sat down. Friedman sat next to McCaleb, Twilley directly across from him. Nobody shook hands.

“I’ve never had Cuban food before,” Twilley said as he pulled a menu from the napkin stand. “Is it good here?”

McCaleb looked at him.

“No. That’s why I like to eat here.”

Twilley’s eyes came up from the menu and he smiled.

“I know, stupid question.” He looked down at the menu and then back up at McCaleb. “You know I know about you, Terry. You’re a fucking legend in the FO. Not ’cause of the heart, ’cause of the cases. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

McCaleb looked over at Winston with a look that said what the hell is going on.

“Terry, Marc and Don are from the civil rights section.”

“Yeah? That’s great. Did you guys come all the way from the field office to meet the legend and try Cuban food, or is there something else?”

“Uh…,” Twilley began.

“Terry, the shit’s hit the fan,” Winston said. “A reporter called my captain this morning to ask if we were investigating Harry Bosch as a suspect in the Gunn case.”

McCaleb leaned back in his seat, shocked by the news. He was about to respond when the waiter came to the table.

“Give us a couple minutes,” Twilley said gruffly to the man, waving him off with a dismissive gesture, which annoyed McCaleb.

Winston continued.

“Terry, before we go further with this, I have to know something. Did you leak this?”

McCaleb shook his head in disgust.

“Are you kidding me? You’re asking me that?”

“Look, all I know is that it didn’t come from me. And I didn’t tell anyone, not Captain Hitchens and not even my own partner, let alone a reporter.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. Thanks for asking.”

He glanced at Twilley and then back at Winston. He hated having this dispute with Jaye in front of them.

“What are these guys doing here?” he asked. Then looking at Twilley again, he added, “What do you want?”

“They’re taking over the case, Terry,” Winston answered. “And you’re out.”

McCaleb looked back at Winston. His mouth opened a little before he realized how he looked and closed it.

“What are you talking about? I’m out? I’m the only one in. I’ve been working this as -”

“I know, Terry. But things are different now. After the reporter called Hitchens I had to tell him what was happening, what we’d been doing. He threw a fit and after he was done throwing a fit he decided the best way to handle this was to go to the bureau with it.”

“The civil rights section, Terry,” Twilley said. “Investigating cops is our bread and butter. We’ll be able to -”

“Fuck you, Twilley. Don’t try that bureau rap with me. I used to be in the club, remember? I know how it goes. You guys will come in, piggyback my trail and then waltz Bosch past the cameras on the way to the lockup.”

“Is that what this is about?” Friedman said. “Getting the credit?”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Terry,” Twilley said. “We can put you in front of the cameras if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want. And don’t call me Terry. You don’t even fuckin’ know me.”

He looked down at the table, shaking his head.

“Fuck, I’ve been waiting to come back to this place for a long time and now I don’t even feel like eating.”

“Terry…,” Winston said, not offering anything else.

“What, you’re going to tell me this is right?”

“No. It’s not right or wrong. It’s just the way it is. The investigation is official now. You’re not official. You knew this could happen from the start.”

He reluctantly nodded. He brought his elbows up onto the table and put his face into his hands.

“Who was the reporter?”

When Winston didn’t answer he dropped his hands and looked pointedly at her.

“Who?”

“A guy named Jack McEvoy. He works for the New Times, an alternative weekly that likes to stir up shit.”

“I know what it is.”

“You know McEvoy?” Twilley asked.

McCaleb’s cell phone began to chirp. It was in the pocket of his jacket draped over his chair. It got caught in the pocket as he tried to get it out. He anxiously struggled with it because he assumed it would be Graciela. Other than Winston and Buddy Lockridge, he’d only given the number to Brass Doran in Quantico and he had finished his business with her.

He finally answered after the fifth chirp.

“Hey, Agent McCaleb, it’s Jack McEvoy from the New Times. You got a couple minutes to talk?”

McCaleb looked across the table at Twilley, wondering if he could hear the voice on the phone.

“Actually, I don’t. I’m in the middle of something here. How’d you get this number?”

“Information on Catalina. I called the number and your wife answered. She gave me your cell. That a problem?”

“No, no problem. But I can’t talk now.”

“When can we talk? It’s important. Something’s come up that I really want to talk -”

“Just call me later. In an hour.”

McCaleb closed the phone and put it down on the table. He looked at it, half expecting McEvoy to call back right away. Reporters were like that.

“Terry, everything all right?”

He looked up at Winston.

“Yeah, fine. My charter tomorrow. He wanted to know about the weather.”

He looked at Twilley.

“What was your question again?”

“Do you know Jack McEvoy? The reporter who called Captain Hitchens.”

McCaleb paused, looking at Winston and then back at Twilley.

“Yeah, I know him. You know I know him.”

“That’s right, the Poet case. You had a piece of that.”

“A small piece.”

“When was the last time you talked to McEvoy?”

“Well, that would’ve been, let’s see… that would have been a couple days ago.”

Winston visibly stiffened. McCaleb looked over at her.

“Relax, would you, Jaye? I ran into McEvoy at the Storey trial. I went up there to talk to Bosch. McEvoy’s covering it for New Times and he said hello – I hadn’t talked to him in five years. And I did not tell him what I was doing or what I was working on. In fact, at the time I saw him Bosch wasn’t even a suspect.”

“Well, did he see you with Bosch?”

“I’m sure he did. Everybody did. There’s as much media up there as there was for O. J. Did he specifically mention me to your captain?”

“If he did, Hitchens didn’t tell me.”

“All right, then, if it wasn’t you and it wasn’t me, where else did the leak come from?”

“That’s what we are asking you,” Twilley said. “Before we come into this case we want to know the lay of the land and who’s talking to who.”

McCaleb didn’t reply. He was getting claustrophobic. Between the conversation and Twilley being in his face, and the people standing around in the small restaurant waiting for tables, he was beginning to feel like he couldn’t breathe.

“What about this bar you went to last night?” Friedman asked.

McCaleb leaned back and looked over at him.

“What about it?”

“Jaye told us what you told her. You specifically asked about Bosch and Gunn there, right?”

“Yeah, right. And what? You think the bartender then jumped on the phone and called the New Times and asked for Jack McEvoy? All because I showed her a picture of Bosch? Give me a fucking break.”

“Hey, it’s a media-conscious town. People are plugged in. People sell stories, info, data all the time.”

McCaleb shook his head, refusing to buy into the possibility that the bartender in the vest had enough intelligence to put together what he was doing and to then make a call to a reporter.

Suddenly, he realized who did have the intelligence and information to do it. Buddy Lockridge. And if it had been him, it might as well have been McCaleb who leaked the story. He felt sweat start to warm his scalp as he thought about Lockridge hiding down on the lower deck while he had made his case against Bosch to Winston.

“Did you have anything to drink while you were in the bar? I hear you take a mess of pills every day. Mixing that with alcohol… you know, loose lips sink ships.”

Twilley had asked the question but McCaleb looked sharply at Winston. He was stung with a sense of betrayal by the whole scene and at how quickly things had shifted. But before he could say anything he saw the apology in her eyes and he knew she wished things had been handled differently. He finally looked back at Twilley.

“You think maybe I mixed a few too many drinks and pills, Twilley? That it? You think I started shooting my mouth off in the bar?”

“I don’t think that. I’m just asking, okay? No reason to get defensive here. I’m just trying to figure out how this reporter knows what he thinks he knows.”

“Well, figure it out without me.”

McCaleb pushed back his chair to get up.

“Try the lechon asada,” he said. “It’s the best in the city.”

As he began to get up, Twilley reached across the table and grabbed his forearm.

“Come on, Terry, let’s talk about this,” Twilley said.

“Terry, please,” Winston said.

McCaleb pulled his arm loose from Twilley’s grip and stood up. He looked over at Winston.

“Good luck with these guys, Jaye. You’ll probably need it.”

Then he looked down at Friedman and then Twilley.

“And fuck you guys very much.”

He made his way through the crowd of people waiting and out the front door. Nobody followed him.

He sat in the Cherokee parked on Sunset and watched the restaurant while letting the anger slowly leach out of his body. On one level McCaleb knew the moves Winston and her captain were making were the right moves. But on another he didn’t like being moved out of his own case. A case was like a car. You could be driving it or riding in the front or back. Or you could be left on the side of the road as the car went by. McCaleb had just gone from having his hands on the wheel to thumbing it from the side of the road. And it hurt.

He began to think about Buddy Lockridge and how he would handle him. If he determined that it had been Buddy who had talked to McEvoy after eavesdropping on McCaleb’s briefing of Winston on the boat, then he would cleanly sever all ties to him. Partner or not, he wouldn’t be able to work with Buddy again.

He realized that Buddy had the number to his cell phone and could have been the one who gave it to McEvoy. He got the phone out and called his home. Graciela answered, Fridays being one of her half days at the school.

“Graciela, did you give my cell number to anybody lately?”

“Yes, a reporter who said he knew you and needed to speak with you right away. A Jack something. Why, is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I was just checking.”

“Are you sure?”

McCaleb got a call-waiting beep. He looked at his watch. It was ten to one. McEvoy wasn’t supposed to call back until after one.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he told Graciela. “Look, I’ve got another call. I’ll be home by dark tonight. I’ll see you then.”

He switched to the other call. It was McEvoy, who explained that he was at the courthouse and had to get back into the trial at one or he’d lose his precious seat. He couldn’t wait the full hour to call back.

“Can you talk now?” he asked.

“What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“You keep saying that. About what?”

“Harry Bosch. I’m working on a story about -”

“I don’t know anything about the Storey case. Only what’s on TV.”

“It’s not that. It’s about the Edward Gunn case.”

McCaleb didn’t answer. He knew this was not good. Dancing with a reporter over something like this could only lead to trouble. McEvoy spoke into the silence.

“Is that what you wanted to see Harry Bosch about the other day when I saw you here? Are you working on the Gunn case?”

“Listen to me. I can honestly tell you that I am not working on the Edward Gunn case. Okay?”

Good, McCaleb thought. So far he hadn’t lied.

“Were you working on the case? For the sheriff’s department?”

“Can I ask you something? Who told you this? Who said I was working this case?”

“I can’t answer that. I have to protect my sources. If you want to give me information I will protect your identity as well. But if I give up a source, I’m fucked in this business.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Jack. I’m not talking to you unless you are talking to me, know what I mean? It’s a two-way street. You want to tell me who is saying this shit about me and I’ll talk to you. Otherwise, we’ve got nothing to say to each other.”

He waited. McEvoy said nothing.

“I thought so. Take it easy, Jack.”

He closed the phone. Whether McEvoy had mentioned his name or not to Captain Hitchens, it was clear that McEvoy was tapped in to a credible pipeline of information. And again McCaleb narrowed it down to one person besides himself and Jaye Winston.

“Goddamnit!” he said out loud in the car.

A few minutes after one he watched Jaye Winston come out of El Cochinito. McCaleb was hoping for the chance to corner her and talk to her alone, maybe tell her about Lockridge. But Twilley and Friedman followed her out and all three got into the same car. A bureau car.

McCaleb watched them pull out into traffic and drive off in the direction of downtown. He got out of the Cherokee and went back into the restaurant. He was starved. There were no tables available so he made an order to go. He’d eat in the Cherokee.

The old woman who took his order looked up at him with sad brown eyes. She said it had been a busy week and the kitchen had just run out of lechon asada.