Blood Work

15

AFTER EATING LUNCH at Musso and Frank’s, a place McCaleb loved but hadn’t been back to in two years, they drove over the hill from Hollywood to the Valley and got to the building that housed Deltona Clocks at quarter to two. McCaleb had called the business before they set out that morning from the marina and learned that Mikail Bolotov was still working a two-to-ten shift.

Deltona Clocks was a large warehouse structure located behind a small street-front showroom and retail shop. After Lockridge parked the Taurus in front of the retail store, McCaleb reached down to the leather bag on the floor in front of him and removed his gun. It was already snugly held in a canvas holster which he then clipped onto his belt.

“Hey, what are you expecting in there?” Lockridge said after he saw the weapon.

“Nothing. It’s more a prop than anything else.”

McCaleb next pulled out an inch-thick sheaf of the sheriff’s investigative records and made sure the report on the interview with Bolotov and his employer, a man identified as Arnold Toliver, was on top. He was ready. He looked over at Lockridge.

“Okay, sit tight.”

He noted as he got out of the Taurus that this time Buddy hadn’t offered to come in with him. He thought maybe he should carry the gun more often.

Inside the retail shop there were no customers. Cheap clocks of almost every size were on display. Most had an industrial look, as though they were more likely to be found in a classroom or an auto supply store than in somebody’s home. On the wall behind the counter at the rear of the space was a display of eight matching clocks showing the time in eight cities around the world. There was a young woman sitting on a folding chair behind the counter. McCaleb thought about how slowly time must pass for her with no customers and all of those clocks.

“How do I find Mr. Toliver?” he asked as he came up to the counter.

“Arnold or Randy?”

“ Arnold.”

“I have to call back. Who are you with?”

“I’m not here to buy clocks. I’m conducting a follow-up on a Sheriff’s Department inquiry of February third.”

He dropped the stack of paperwork on the counter so she could see that they were official forms. He then raised his hands and put them on his hips, carefully allowing his sports coat to open and expose the gun. He watched her eyes as she noticed it. She picked up a telephone that was on the counter and dialed three numbers.

“Arnie, it’s Wendy. There’s a man from the Sheriff’s Department here about an investigation or something.”

McCaleb didn’t correct her. He hadn’t lied to her and he wouldn’t lie to her about who he was and whom he was with. But if she wanted to make incorrect assumptions, then he wasn’t going to correct her. After listening to the phone for a few moments, Wendy looked up at McCaleb.

“What investigation?”

McCaleb nodded toward the phone and held his hand out. The young woman hesitated but then handed the phone receiver to him.

“Mr. Toliver?” he said into the phone. “Terry McCaleb. A couple months ago you talked to a couple of sheriff’s detectives named Ritenbaugh and Aguilar about an employee named Mikail Bolotov. You remember?”

After a long hesitation Toliver agreed that he had.

“Well, I’m investigating that case now. Ritenbaugh and Aguilar are onto other things. I need to ask you some additional questions about that. Can I come back?”

Again a hesitation.

“Well… we are awfully busy back here. I-”

“I won’t take long, sir. Remember, it’s a murder investigation and I’m hoping you’ll continue to help us out.”

“Well, I suppose…”

“You suppose what?”

“Uh, just come on back. The girl will tell you where I’m at.”

Three minutes later McCaleb had walked the length of the building, past several rows of assembly and packaging benches, to an office at the rear next to a loading dock. There was a short flight of stairs up into the office. Next to the door was a window that allowed Toliver to look out across the workbenches as well as the shipping and receiving dock. As he had walked past the benches toward the office, McCaleb had overheard the conversations of the employees. Three different times he heard a language he believed was Russian.

As McCaleb opened the office door, the man he assumed was Toliver hung up the phone and waved him in. He was a skinny man in his sixties, with brown, leathery skin and white hair fringed around the sides of his head. He had a plastic pocket guard in his shirt pocket, jammed with an assortment of pens.

“I’ve gotta make this quick,” he said. “I have to check the lading on a truck going out.”

“Fine.” McCaleb looked down at the report on top of the stack he carried. “Two months ago you told detectives Ritenbaugh and Aguilar that Mikail Bolotov was working the night of January twenty-second.”

“That’s right. I remember. Hasn’t changed.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Toliver?”

“What do you mean, am I sure? Yeah, I’m sure. I looked it up for those two guys. It was in the books. I pulled the time card.”

“Are you saying you based it on what you saw in the pay records or did you actually see Bolotov working that night?”

“He was here. I remembered that. Mikail never missed a day.”

“And you remember him working all the way until ten.”

“His time card showed he-”

“I’m not talking about the time card. I’m talking about you remembering he stayed until ten.”

Toliver didn’t answer. McCaleb glanced out the window at the rows of workbenches.

“You’ve got a lot of people working for you, Mr. Toliver. How many work the two-to-ten shift?”

“Eighty-eight at the moment.”

“And then?”

“About the same. What’s the point?”

“The point is you gave the man an alibi based on a time card. Do you think it could have been possible that Bolotov left early without being noticed, then had a friend punch him out on the clock?”

Toliver didn’t respond.

“Forgetting about Bolotov for a moment, have you ever had that problem before? You know, somebody punching out for somebody else, scamming the company that way?”

“We’ve been in business here sixteen years, it’s happened.”

“Okay.” McCaleb nodded. “Now, could it have happened with Bolotov? Or do you stand at the time clock every night and make sure nobody punches two cards.”

“Anything’s possible. We don’t stand at the clock. Most nights my son closes up. I’m already home. He keeps an eye on things.”

McCaleb held his breath for a beat and felt the excitement he had been containing build. Toliver’s answer, if it were given in court, would be enough to shred Bolotov’s alibi.

“Your son, is that Randy?”

“Yeah, Randy.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“He’s in Mexico. We’ve got another plant in Mexicali. He spends one week a month down there. He’ll be back next week.”

“Maybe we can call him?”

“I can try but he’s probably out on the floor. That’s why he goes down there. To make sure the line is running. Besides, how is he going to remember one night three months ago? We make clocks here, Detective. Every night we make the same clocks. Every day we ship them out. One night is no different from the other.”

McCaleb turned away from him and looked out the window again. He noticed that several of the workers were leaving their posts as new workers were taking their places. He watched the shift change until he picked out the man he believed was Bolotov. There had been no photo in the records and only a spare description. But the man McCaleb was now watching wore a black T-shirt with sleeves stretched tightly around his powerful and tattoo-laced arms. The tattoos were all of one ink-jailhouse blue. It had to be Bolotov.

“That’s him, right?”

He nodded in the direction of the man who had taken a seat at a workbench. It appeared to McCaleb that it was Bolotov’s job to place the plastic casings around completed clock mechanisms and then stack them in a four-wheeled cart.

“Which?”

Toliver had come up next to McCaleb at the window.

“With the tattoos.”

“Yeah.”

McCaleb nodded and thought for a moment.

“Did you tell Ritenbaugh and Aguilar that the alibi you were giving that man was based on what you saw in the pay records and time cards and not what you or your son actually saw on that night?”

“Yeah, I told them. They said fine. They left and that was that. Now, here you are with these new questions. Why don’t you guys get your shit together? It would have been a lot easier for my boy to remember after two or three weeks instead of three months.”

McCaleb was silent as he thought about Ritenbaugh and Aguilar. They had probably had a list of twenty-five names they had to cover in the week they were assigned to the case. It was sloppy work but he understood how it could happen.

“Listen, I’ve got to go out to the dock,” Toliver said. “You want to wait until I come back or what?”

“Tell you what, why don’t you send Bolotov in here on your way out. I need to talk to him.”

“In here?”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Toliver. I am sure you want to help us out and continue to cooperate, don’t you?”

He stared at Toliver as a final means of ending his unspoken objection.

“Whatever,” Toliver said as he threw his hands up in a gesture of annoyance and headed toward the door. “Just don’t take all day.”

“Oh, Mr. Toliver?”

Toliver stopped at the door and looked back at him.

“I heard a lot of Russian being spoken out there. Where do you get the Russians?”

“They’re good workers and they don’t complain. They don’t mind being paid shit, either. When we advertise for help, we do it in the local Russian paper.”

He went through the door then, leaving it open behind him. McCaleb pulled the two chairs in front of the desk away and turned them so they faced each other from about five feet apart. He sat down on the one closest to the door and waited. He quickly thought about how he would handle the interview and decided to come at Bolotov strong. He wanted to engender a response, get some kind of reaction to which he could register his own feel for the man.

He felt a presence in the room and looked at the door. The man he had guessed was Bolotov stood there. He was about five ten, with black hair and pale white skin. But the bulging arm muscles and tattoos-a snake wrapped around one arm, a spider’s web covering the other-made his arms the focal point of his image. McCaleb pointed to the empty chair.

“Have a seat.”

Bolotov moved to the chair and sat down without hesitation. McCaleb saw that the spider web apparently continued under the shirt and then came up both sides of the Russian’s neck. A black spider sat in the web just below his right ear.

“What is this?”

“Same as before, Bolotov. My name’s McCaleb. The night of January twenty-second. Tell me about it.”

“I told them before. I work here that night. It was not me you look for.”

“So you said. But things are different now. We know things we didn’t know then.”

“What things?”

McCaleb got up and locked the door and then retook his seat. It was just a little show, an underlining of his control. Something for Bolotov to think about.

“What things?” he asked again.

“Like the burglary of the house over on Mason, just a few blocks from here. You remember, the one with the Christmas tree and all the presents. That’s where you got the gun, wasn’t it, Bolotov?”

“No, I am clean on these things.”

“Bullshit. You did the break-in and you got that nice new gun. Then you decided to use it. You used it up in Lancaster and then again around the corner from here at the market. You’re a killer, Bolotov. A killer.”

The Russian sat still but McCaleb could see his biceps drawing tight, better defining the artwork on his arms. He pressed on.

“What about February seventh, you have an alibi for that night, too?”

“I don’t know that night. I have to-”

“You walked into the Sherman Market and you killed two people that night. You should know it.”

Bolotov suddenly stood up.

“Who are you? You’re not cop.”

McCaleb just looked up at him, keeping his seat, hoping not to show the surprise he was feeling.

“Cops are in twos. Who are you?”

“I’m the one who’s going to take you down. You did it, Bolotov, and I’m going to prove it.”

“Wha-”

There was an angry knock on the door and McCaleb instinctively turned to look. It was a small mistake but it was all Bolotov needed. McCaleb saw the black blur coming at him in his peripheral vision. Instinctively he began bringing his arms up to protect his chest. He wasn’t quick enough. Suddenly he was hit with the impact of the other man’s weight and his chair went over with him still in it.

Bolotov had him down on the floor while Toliver or whoever was out there continued to knock angrily on the door. The bigger, stronger man held McCaleb down while he went through his pockets. His hand hit the gun and he tore it off the belt and threw it across the room. Finally he found McCaleb’s wallet in the inside pocket of his sports coat. He pulled it out, ripping the pocket, and opened it.

“No badge. See, no cop.”

He read the name off the driver’s license, which was held behind a plastic window in the wallet.

“Terr-ell-Mack-Cow-leeb.”

Bolotov then read off the address. McCaleb felt relieved that it was actually the address of the harbormaster’s office, where he had a postal box.

“Maybe I pay you a visit one day, yes?”

McCaleb didn’t answer or move. He knew there was no chance of overpowering the man. As he was considering his predicament, Bolotov dropped the wallet on his chest and jumped up. He jerked the chair out from beneath McCaleb’s hips and raised it over his head. McCaleb raised his arms up to protect his face and head, realizing in the same instant that he was leaving his chest unprotected.

He heard the shatter of glass and looked between his arms to see the chair crashing through the office window. He then watched as Bolotov followed it, leaping with ease through the opening and down to the manufacturing floor. Then he was gone.

McCaleb rolled to his side, folding his arms across his chest and bringing his knees up. He spread a hand flat on his chest, trying to feel the beat. He took two deep breaths and slowly got to his knees and raised himself. The pounding on the door continued, now accompanied by Toliver’s panicked demands that McCaleb open up.

McCaleb reached over to unlock the door. He felt a wave of vertigo hit him then. It was like sliding down a twelve-foot trough into the valley of a wave. Toliver burst into the office and started screaming at him but McCaleb didn’t understand his words. He put his hands flat on the floor and closed his eyes, trying to steady himself.

“Shit,” was all he managed to whisper.

Buddy Lockridge jumped out of the Taurus when he saw McCaleb approaching. He ran around the front of the car and came to McCaleb’s side.

“Jesus, what happened?”

“Nothing. I made a mistake, that’s all.”

“You look like shit.”

“I’m okay now. Let’s go.”

Lockridge opened the door for him and then went around to the driver’s side and got in.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Find a phone.”

“There’s one right there.”

He pointed to the Jack in the Box restaurant next door. There was a pay phone on the wall near one of the doors. McCaleb got out and slowly walked to the phone. He was careful to keep his eyes on the pavement in front of him, not wanting to set off another slide into vertigo.

He called Jaye Winston’s direct line, expecting to leave a message, but she picked up immediately.

“It’s Terry. I thought you had court.”

“I do but it’s the lunch break. I have to be back at two. I was just about to call you.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Hypnotize Mr. Noone. The captain signed off on it and I called Mr. Noone. He said sure. He just wants us to do it tonight because he’s going out of town-back to Vegas, I guess. He’s going to be here at six. You can do it then, right?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Then we’re set. Why were you calling?”

McCaleb hesitated. What he had to tell her might change the evening’s plans but he knew he couldn’t delay.

“Can you get a photo of Bolotov by tonight?”

“I already have one. You want to show Noone?”

“Yeah. I just paid Bolotov a little visit and he didn’t react too well to it.”

“What happened?”

“Before I could ask him three questions, he jumped me and ran.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“I wish.”

“What about his alibi?”

“It’s about as solid as a loaf of bread.”

McCaleb briefly recounted his interview with Toliver and then Bolotov. He told Winston she should put out a wanted notice for Bolotov.

“For what, did you or Toliver make a police report?”

“I didn’t but Toliver said he was going to make a report on the window.”

“All right, I’ll put out a pickup. Are you all right? You sound punchy.”

“I’m okay. Is this going to change things? Or are we still on for tonight?”

“Far as I’m concerned, we’re still on.”

“Okay. See you then.”

“Look, Terry, don’t put too much stock in Bolotov, okay?”

“I think he looks good for this.”

“I don’t know. Lancaster ’s a long way from where Bolotov lives. You’ve got to remember, the guy’s a convict. He could have and would have done what he did with you whether he’s involved with this or not. Because if he didn’t do this, then he did something else.”

“Maybe. But I still like the guy.”

“Well, maybe Noone will make our day and point him out in a six-pack.”

“Now you’re talking.”

After hanging up, McCaleb made it back to the Taurus without a problem. Once inside he dug the travel kit he always carried with him out of the leather satchel on the floor. It contained a day’s worth of medication and a dozen or so throw-away thermometers called Temp-Strips. He peeled the paper off one and put it in his mouth. While he waited, he signaled Lockridge to start the car. Once the engine had fired, McCaleb reached over to the air-conditioner controls and turned it on.

“You want air?” Lockridge asked.

McCaleb nodded and Lockridge turned the fan up higher.

After three minutes McCaleb took the strip out and checked it. He felt a deep shard of fear cut into him as he looked at the thin red vein stretched past the one-hundred-degree mark.

“Let’s go home.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. The marina.”

As Lockridge pointed the car south toward the 101 freeway, McCaleb turned the air vents on his side so that the cool air was flowing right into his face. He opened up another Temp-Strip and put it under his tongue. He tried to calm himself by turning on KFWB on the radio and looking out at the passing street scene. Two minutes later the second temperature reading was better than the first, but he was still running a low-grade fever. His fear eased back some and his throat relaxed. He banged his palms against the dashboard and shook his head, convincing himself in the process that the fever was an aberration. He had been perfect so far. There was no reason for this other than that he had gotten overheated while tangling with Bolotov.

He decided to go back to the boat and take an aspirin and a long nap before preparing for the evening’s session with James Noone. The alternative was to call Bonnie Fox. And he knew that such a call would result in his finding himself in a hospital bed for several days of testing and observation. Fox was as thorough at what she did as McCaleb liked to think he was at what he did. She wouldn’t hesitate to bring him in. He would lose at least a week lying in bed in Cedars. He would certainly miss his chance at Noone and he would lose the momentum that was the only other thing he had going for him in this investigation.