“ How? ” McCaleb asked angrily, his voice rising. “None of this would have even happened if I hadn’t started looking into it. The ballistics match to Kenyon was made because of me. That brought the bureau in. You think that is what a guilty man would do? That’s crazy.”

He was angrily pointing at his own chest.

“All of that was considered. We sat around and hashed it out this morning. The theory that emerged was that you had this woman-the sister-who had come to you and you figured she wasn’t going to let this go. So you decided you better take the case before somebody else did. You took it and proceeded to sabotage it. You came up with this Bolotov goose chase. You hypnotized the only real witness and now he’s lost to us as far as court goes. Yes, the ballistics match was made because of you but maybe that was a surprise, maybe you were expecting it to come up empty since a Devastator had been used the first time.”

McCaleb shook his head. He wouldn’t allow himself to see their side of it. He still couldn’t believe they had turned the focus on him.

“Look, we weren’t sold on it one hundred percent,” Winston said. “We felt there was enough to get and justify a warrant for the search-and there was. We felt the search was make or break. We would find evidence and go further with it, or we would drop it. But then we find out you drive a black Cherokee and then sitting under that drawer are three very damning pieces of evidence. The only thing that could have been worse for you would have been to find the gun.”

McCaleb thought of the gun sitting in his bag, five feet away from them. Again he knew how lucky he had been.

“But like you said, it was too easy.”

“For me it was. The others didn’t see it that way. Like I said before, they started strutting. They saw the headlines.”

McCaleb shook his head. The discussion had sapped his strength. He stepped over to the galley table and slid into the booth.

“I am being set up,” he said.

Winston came over.

“I believe you,” she said. “And whoever he is, he’s done a good job of it. Have you thought at all about why it is you that’s been set up?”

McCaleb nodded as he drew a design in a spray of sugar that had been spilled on the table.

“When I look at it from the shooter’s view, I see why.”

He brushed the sugar off the table with his palm.

“After Kenyon didn’t work out and the shooter knew he had to go back to the list, he also knew he was doubling the risk. He knew there was an off chance that the cases might be connected through the blood. He knew he had to lay the groundwork for a deflection. He picked me. If he was in the BOPRA computer, then he knew I was next on the list for a heart. He probably backgrounded me like the others. He knew about the Cherokee I drove and used one himself. He took souvenirs from the victims so that he could plant them, if needed, here. Then it was probably him who made the tip call to Nevins when everything was set.”

McCaleb sat silently for a long moment, brooding about his situation. Then he slowly slid back out of the booth.

“I have to finish packing.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’ll need to talk to you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

He started down the stairs, his hands gripping the overhead rails.

“Terry.”

He stopped and turned to look back at her.

“I’m taking a big chance. My neck’s a mile out there.”

“I know that, Jaye. Thanks.”

With that he disappeared into the darkness below.

37

McCALEB’S CHEROKEE HAD been impounded during the search earlier in the day. He borrowed Lockridge’s Taurus and drove it north on the 405. When he reached the 10 interchange, he went west to the Pacific and then continued north again on the coast highway. He was in no hurry and he was tired of freeways. He’d decided to drive along the ocean and then cut up to the Valley through Topanga Canyon. He knew Topanga was desolate enough for him to be able to tell if he was being followed by Winston. Or anybody else.

It was half past nine by the time he reached the shore and was skirting along the black water intermittently broken by the froth of crashing waves. The night fog was coming in heavy and pushing across the highway, butting into the sheer bluffs that guarded the Palisades. It carried with the strong scent and feel of the sea and it reminded McCaleb of night fishing with his father when he was a boy. It always scared him when his father throttled down and killed the engines so they could drift in the dark. His breath held tight at the end of the night when the old man turned the key to restart. He had nightmares as a boy about drifting alone in the dark in a dead boat. He never told his father about those dreams. He never told him he didn’t want to go night fishing. He always held his fears to himself.

McCaleb looked out to his left to try to find the line where ocean met sky but he couldn’t see it. Two shades of darkness blending somewhere out there, the moon hidden in cloud cover. It seemed to fit his mood. He turned on the radio and fished around for some blues but gave up and turned it off. He remembered Buddy’s collection of harmonicas and reached into the door pocket for one. He flipped on the overhead light and checked the etching on the top plate. It was a Tombo in the key of C. He wiped it off on his shirt and as he drove, he played with the instrument, mostly producing a cacophony that at times made him laugh out loud at how ugly it was. But every now and then he put together a couple of notes. Buddy had tried to teach him once and he’d gotten to the point where he could play the opening riffs of “Midnight Rambler.” He tried for that now but couldn’t find the chord and what he produced sounded more like a wheezing old man.

When he turned into Topanga Canyon, he put the harmonica down. The road through the canyon was a snake and he’d need both hands on the wheel. Fresh out of distractions, he finally began considering his situation. He first brooded about Winston and how much he could count on her. He knew she was capable and ambitious. What he didn’t know was how well she would stand up to the pressure she would certainly encounter by going against the bureau and the LAPD. He concluded that he was lucky to have her on his side but that he couldn’t sit back and wait for her to show up with the case wrapped up in a box. He could only count on himself.

He figured that if Winston did not convince the others, then at best he had two days before they had an indictment from a grand jury and would go to the media with their prize. After that, his chances of working the case would diminish rapidly. He’d be the lead on the six and eleven o’clock news. He’d have no choice but to give up the investigation, get a lawyer and surrender. The priority would then be clearing his game in the courtroom, never mind catching the real shooter and whoever it was who had hired him.

There was a gravel turnout on the road and McCaleb pulled over, put the ear in park and looked out at the blackness of the drop-off to his right. Far off he saw the square lights of a house deep in the canyon and he wondered what it would be like to be there. He reached over to the seat next to him for the harmonica but it was gone, slipped over the side during one of the turns of the snaking road.

Three minutes went by and no car passed him. He dropped the car back into drive and continued on his way. Once he crested the mountain, the road straightened out some and dropped down into Woodland Hills. He stayed on Topanga Canyon Boulevard until he reached Sherman Way and then he cut east into Canoga Park. Five minutes later he stopped in front of Graciela’s home and watched the windows for a few minutes. He thought about what he would say to her. He wasn’t sure what he had started with her but it felt strong and right to him. Before he even opened the door to the car, he was mourning the possibility that it might already be over.