“Thanks,” McCaleb said. “How long you think before somebody gets a chance to work on it?”

“We’re kind of busy. But I’ll go look at the job board and see if we can’t get someone on it as soon as possible. Maybe by tomorrow or Saturday. Is that okay?”

“It’s okay. Thanks, Tony, I appreciate it.”

“No problem. I don’t know if I still have your card. You want me to call you?”

In that moment McCaleb decided to continue the deception. He didn’t tell Banks that he was no longer an FBI agent. He thought Banks might push the project a little harder if he thought that the job was being done for the bureau.

“Tell you what, let me give you a private number. If you call and I don’t pick up, just leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Sounds good. I hope we can help.”

“Me too. And Tony? Do me a favor and don’t show the tape to anybody who doesn’t need to see it.”

“I won’t,” Banks said, his face reddening a bit. McCaleb realized either he had needlessly embarrassed Banks with a request that did not need to be spoken or he had made the request just as Banks was thinking about whom he could show the tape to. McCaleb thought it was the latter.

McCaleb gave him his number, they shook hands and McCaleb went back down the hall on his own. As he passed the door from which he had heard the feigned sounds of passion, he noticed there was only silence now.

As McCaleb opened the door of the Taurus, he heard the radio playing and noticed Lockridge had a harmonica on his thigh, ready to be played if the right tune came along. Buddy closed a book called Death of a Tenor Man. He has marked a spot about halfway through.

“What happened to Inspector Fujigama?”

“What?”

“The book you had yesterday.”

“ Inspector Imanishi Investigates. I finished it.”

“Imanishi then. You’re a fast reader.”

“Good books read fast. You read crime novels?”

“Why would I want to read made-up stuff when I’ve seen the real stuff and can’t stand it?”

Buddy started the car. He had to turn the ignition twice before it kicked over.

“It’s a much different world. Everything is ordered, good and bad clearly defined, the bad guy always gets what he deserves, the hero shines, no loose ends. It’s a refreshing antidote to the real world.”

“Sounds boring.”

“No, it’s reassuring. Where to now?”

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.”