McCaleb shook his head and said, “No. If he was the target, the shooter would have just gone in and shot him when nobody else was in the store. It was your sister. Your sister and the first man up in Lancaster. There is some connection. We have to find it.”

McCaleb reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a photo Amelia Cordell had given him. It showed James Cordell in close-up, a bright smile on his face. He showed the photo to Graciela.

“Do you recognize this man? Is he someone that your sister might have known?”

She took the photo from him and studied it but then shook her head.

“Not that I know of. Is he… the man from Lancaster?”

McCaleb nodded and took the photo back. He put it in his pocket, then told Graciela to go get Raymond to come inside for his breakfast. As she got to the sliding door, he stopped her.

“Graciela, do you trust me?”

She looked back at him.

“Of course.”

“Then trust me about this. I don’t care if the LAPD and the sheriffs don’t believe me, but I know what I know. With or without them, I’m going to keep pushing on this.”

She nodded and turned back to the door and the boy out in the stern.

THE DETECTIVE BUREAU at the Sheriff’s Department’s Star Center was crowded with detectives when McCaleb entered at eight o’clock on Monday morning. However, the receptionist who had let him walk back to homicide on his own just three days earlier told him he had to wait for the captain. This puzzled McCaleb but before he could ask about it, the receptionist was on the phone making a call. As soon as she hung up, McCaleb saw Captain Hitchens emerge from the meeting room he had sat in with Jaye Winston on Friday. He closed the door behind him and headed toward McCaleb. Terry noticed that the blinds over the meeting room’s glass window were drawn and closed. Hitchens beckoned him to follow.

“Terry, come on back with me.”

McCaleb followed him to his office and Hitchens told him to have a seat. McCaleb was getting a bad feeling about the overly cordial treatment. Hitchens sat behind his desk, folded his arms and leaned forward on the calendar blotter with a smile on his face.

“So, where have you been?”

McCaleb looked at his watch.

“What do you mean? Jaye Winston set the meeting for eight. It’s two minutes after.”

“I mean Sunday, Saturday. Jaye’s been calling.”

McCaleb immediately knew what had happened. On Saturday, when he had been cleaning up the boat, he had taken the phone and the answer machine and placed them in a cabinet next to the chart table. He had then forgotten about it. Calls to the boat and messages left while they had been out on the jetty fishing both days would have been missed. The phone and machine were still in the cabinet.

“Damn,” he now said to Hitchens. “I haven’t checked my machine.”

“Well, we were calling. Could’ve saved you a trip out.”

“The meeting’s been canceled? I thought Jaye wanted-”

“The meeting isn’t canceled, Terry. It’s just that some things have come up and we feel it’s better if we conduct the investigation without outside complications.”

McCaleb studied him for a long moment.

“Complications? Is this because of the heart transplant? Jaye told you?”

“She didn’t have to tell me. But it’s because of a number of things. Look, you came in here and shook things up. Gave us a number of things-good hard leads-to follow. We’re going to do that and we’re going to be very diligent in our investigation, but at this point I have to draw the line on your involvement. I’m sorry.”

There was something not said, McCaleb thought as the captain spoke. Something was going on he didn’t understand or at least know about it. Good hard leads, Hitchens had said. Suddenly, McCaleb understood. If Winston couldn’t get through to him during the weekend, then neither could Vernon Carruthers in Washington, D.C.

“My FAT guy found something?”

“Fat guy?”

“Firearms and Toolmarks. What did he get, Captain?”

Hitchens raised his hands palm out.

“We’re not going to talk about that. I told you, we thank you very much for the jump start. But let us handle it from here. We will let you know what happens and if good things happen, you will be properly credited in our records and with the media.”

“I don’t need to be credited. I just need to be part of this.”

“I’m sorry. But we’ll take it from here.”

“And Jaye agrees with this?”

“It doesn’t matter if she agrees or doesn’t agree. Last I checked, I was running the detective bureau here, not Jaye Winston.”

There was enough annoyance in his tone for McCaleb to conclude that Winston had not been in agreement with Hitchens. That was good to know. He might need her. Staring at Hitchens, McCaleb knew he wasn’t going to go quietly back to his boat and drop it. No way. The captain had to be smart enough to realize it as well.

“I know what you’re thinking. And all I’m saying is don’t get yourself in a jam. If we come across you in the field, there’s going to be a problem.”

McCaleb nodded.

“Fair enough.”

“You’ve been warned.”

McCaleb told Lockridge to cruise around the visitor’s lot. He wanted to get to a phone quickly but first he wanted to see if he could get an idea who had been in the meeting room Hitchens had come out of. He knew Jaye Winston was obviously in there and probably Arrango and Walters. But following his hunch that Vernon Carruthers had come up with a ballistics match with the DRUGFIRE laser program, he also suspected that someone from the bureau besides Maggie Griffin was in the meeting room.

As they moved slowly through the parking lot, McCaleb checked the rear driver’s-side window of each parked car they passed. Finally, in the third lane, he saw what he was looking for.

“Hold it here, Bud,” he said.

They stopped behind a metallic blue Ford LTD. On the rear driver’s-side window was the telltale bar-code sticker. It was a bureau car. A laser reader at the garage entrance of the federal building in Westwood scanned the bar code and raised the steel gate to permit entrance after hours.

McCaleb got out and walked up to the car. There were no other exterior markings to help him identify the agent who had driven it. But whoever had been driving the car made it easy for him. Driving east to the meeting against a rising sun, the driver had turned down the windshield visor and left it down. All the FBI agents McCaleb had ever known kept the government gas card assigned to their car clipped to the visor for easy access. This driver was no exception.

McCaleb looked at the gas card and got the serial number off it. He went back to Lockridge’s car.

“What’s with the car?” Buddy asked.

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Find a phone.”

“Shoulda guessed.”

Five minutes later they were at a service station with a bank of phones on the side wall. Lockridge pulled up to the phones, lowered his window so he would be able to eavesdrop and shut off the car. Before getting out, McCaleb opened his wallet and gave him a twenty-dollar bill.

“Go fill it up. We’re going back up to the desert, I think.”

“Shit.”

“You said you were free all day.”

“I am, but who wants to go to the desert? Don’t any clues point to the beach, for cryin’ out loud?”

McCaleb just laughed at him and got out of the car with his phone book.

At the phone, McCaleb called the field office in Westwood and asked to be transferred to the garage. The call was picked up after twelve rings.

“G’age.”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Roofs.”

“Oh, okay,” McCaleb said, remembering the man. “Rufus, this is Convey up on fifteen. I’ve got a question you might be able to answer for me.”