“No, that’s fine. Just let me know.”

She took a step closer to him and held out her hand to shake.

“Thank you very much for tonight,” she said. “He’s quiet most of the time but I think he enjoyed it and I know I did.”

McCaleb took her hand and shook it but then she leaned into him, brought her face up and kissed him on the cheek. As she stepped back, she brought her hand to her mouth.

“Bristly,” she said with a smile. “Are you growing a beard?”

“Thinking about it.”

This made her laugh for some reason. She walked around the car and he followed so he could hold open the door. When she was in her seat, she looked up at him.

“You know, you should believe in them,” she said.

He looked down at her.

“You mean angels?”

She nodded. He nodded back. She started the car and drove off.

Back at the boat, he went over to the corner of the stern. The fishing pole was still in the slot and the line was still in the water as Raymond had left it. But as he reeled the line in, McCaleb could tell there was no drag on it. When the line finally came out of the water, he saw the hook and weight but no bait. Something down there had cleaned him out.

ON THURSDAY MORNING McCaleb was up before the port stevedores had anything to do with it. The caffeine of the day before had surged through his veins without ebb and kept him from sleep. It fueled disquieting thoughts of the investigation, of the differences between angles and angels and of Graciela and the boy. Eventually, he gave up on sleep and just waited with eyes open for the first light to filter through the blinds.

He was showered and finished measuring vital signs and swallowing pills by six o’clock. He took the stack of investigative reports back up to the table in the salon, put on another pot of coffee and ate a bowl of cereal. In between, he constantly checked his watch and thought about whether to call Vernon Carruthers without talking to Jaye Winston first.

Winston wouldn’t be in yet. But three hours ahead at FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., McCaleb’s friend Vernon Carruthers would be in his place in the FAT unit of the crime lab. McCaleb knew he shouldn’t talk to Carruthers before getting the go-ahead from Winston. It was Winston’s case. But the three-hour time difference between L.A. and Washington had him anxious. At his core McCaleb was an impatient man. The urge to get something going and not lose the day was pressing him.

After rinsing out the bowl and leaving it in the sink, he checked his watch once more and decided not to wait. He got out his phone book and called Carruthers on his direct line. He picked up on one ring.

“ Vernon, it’s Terry.”

“Terrell McCaleb! You here in the city?”

“Nah, still in L.A. How are you, man?”

“How are you ? I mean, like long time, no hear.”

“I know, I know. But I’m doing okay. Thanks for the cards you sent to the hospital. Tell Marie I said thanks, too. It meant a lot. I know I should’ve called or written. I’m sorry.”

“Well, we tried calling you but you’re unlisted and nobody in the FO seemed to have the new number. Talked to Kate and she didn’t even know. All she knew was you gave up your apartment in Westwood. Somebody else in the FO said you were livin’ on a boat now. You really cut yourself off from everybody.”

“Well, I just thought it would be best for a while. You know, until I was mobile and everything. But everything’s good. How about you?”

“Can’t complain. You coming out here anytime soon? You know you still have the room. Haven’t rented it out to anybody from Quantico yet. Wouldn’t dare.”

McCaleb laughed and told him that unfortunately there were no immediate plans for a trip east. He had known Carruthers for nearly twelve years. McCaleb had worked out of Quantico and Carruthers had worked out of Firearms and Toolmarks in the crime lab up in D.C. but it seemed that the two were often working the same cases. Whenever Carruthers came down to Quantico for meetings, McCaleb and his then wife, Kate, had put him up in their spare bedroom. It beat the spare accommodations of a room in an academy dorm. In return, whenever McCaleb was in D.C., Carruthers and his wife, Marie, had let him bunk in the room that had belonged to their son. He had died years earlier of leukemia when he was twelve. Carruthers had insisted on the trade-off, even though it meant McCaleb was giving up a decent FBI-paid room at the Hilton near Dupont Circle. At first McCaleb felt like an intruder sleeping in the boy’s room. But Vernon and Marie made him feel welcome. And the southern cooking and the good company couldn’t be touched by the Hilton.

“Well, anytime,” Carruthers said with a returning laugh. “Anytime.”

“Thanks, man.”

“So by my estimate, it’s gotta be barely the crack a’ dawn out there. What’re you calling so early for?”

“Well, I’m calling on a bit of business.”

“You? Business? I was about to ask you how the wonderful world of retirement was treating you. Are you really living on a goddamned boat?”

“Yeah, I’m on a boat. But I’m not quite into the pasture yet.”

“Well, what’s up then?”

McCaleb told him the story, including the part about his receiving Gloria Torres’s heart. McCaleb wanted Carruthers to know everything, unlike the others involved. He knew he could trust him with it and knew he would understand the bond McCaleb had to the victim. Carruthers had a strong empathy for victims, especially the young ones. The trauma of watching his son die over time in front of him had manifested itself in a dedication to his job that surpassed that of even the best field agents McCaleb had known.

Halfway through the telling, the booming sound of a cargo ship being unloaded began echoing across the marina. Carruthers asked what the hell it was and McCaleb told him as he took the phone down into the forward stateroom and closed the door to get away as much as possible from the noise.

“So what you want is for me to take a look at a slug from this?” Carruthers asked when McCaleb was finished. “I don’t know. That Sheriff’s Department out there, they’ve got good people.”

“I know that. I’m not doubting that. I just want a fresh look and, mostly, I want you to put a laser profile through your computer, if you can. You never know. We might hit something. I’ve got a feeling about this one.”

“You and your feelings. I remember those. All right, then who am I getting the package from? Them or you?”

“I’m going to try to finesse it. Get the Sheriff’s Department out here to send in the package. I don’t want you doing this off the books. But if you can, I’d like to put some grease on it. This shooter’s a repeater. We might save somebody’s life if we can get a line on him.”

Carruthers was silent a few moments and McCaleb guessed he was running his schedule through his head.

“This is the thing. Today’s Thursday. I need it by Tuesday morning latest and preferably Monday so I have time to do it justice. Next Wednesday I’m flying out to Kansas City to testify. Mob case. They think I’ll be out there the rest of the week. So if you want it expedited, you’ve got to expedite it to me. If you do, I’ll give it my immediate attention.”

“That’s not going to cause major problems?”

“ ’Course it is. I’m backed up two months here, what else is new? But just get me the package and I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll get it to you. One way or the other by Monday latest.”

“Okay, buddy.”

“Oh, one last thing. Take my number. Like I said, I’m not acting in any official capacity on this thing. By rights, you should communicate with the Sheriff’s Department, but I’d appreciate a heads-up if you come up with anything unusual.”

“You got it,” he said without hesitation. “Give me the number. And the address. Marie will want that for Christmas cards.”