Page 93 of Witness 8

‘You know the identity of the anonymous caller, don’t you?’

His mouth opened, and he inhaled, and then shut it again. Castro was on his feet.

‘Objection, Your Honor,’ he said.

‘What? Why? Either he knows who the anonymous caller is, or he doesn’t. That information has not been disclosed,’ I said.

But I knew, in my gut, why Castro was objecting.

We approached the bench, so the jury and the rest of the courtroom wouldn’t hear our whispered conversation.

‘He can’t answer that question, Your Honor,’ said Castro.

‘I don’t see why not?’ said the judge.

Castro swallowed, looked at me sideways then back at the judge.

‘Your Honor, the anonymous caller is now our anonymous witness.’

40

Bloch

‘What the hell is up with these guys?’ asked Lake.

He sat in the passenger seat of Bloch’s Jeep, and sipped at his filtered water. They had been there since the morning. Parked at a position in the street that gave them a view of both Todd Ellis’s and Bret Bale’s homes. Bale’s home was furthest away, but there were no cars parked in front of Bloch, and the elevated driving position of the Jeep made sure they could see if anyone went into or out of those properties.

So far, neither man had left home. And no one had come calling.

‘Something is going on, for sure,’ said Lake, and this time he turned to look at Bloch. She hadn’t acknowledged his first statement, and was so far ignoring his second.

‘I’ve never asked you this, but how come you don’t talk much?’ he asked, his fingers drumming the arm rest.

Turning her head slowly, Bloch looked at Lake. Raised an eyebrow, asked, ‘When are you getting your own car?’

Lake nodded.

That seemed to be enough.

She brought her gaze to the front and sighed. Lake talked too much. His fingers were either tapping on the dash, or his foot thumping on the floor, or he was messing with his hair, humming, or just talking for the sake of it. Lake had the kind of energetic mind that just had too damn much going on.

Bloch was still.

Composed.

Her mind worked in a different way. Logic. Numbers. Facts. Then conclusions. Lake more than made up for what she didn’t understand about human behavior, which was a lot. He could think like the men he hunted. Bloch didn’t like to consider that too much. Lake had a capacity to put himself in other people’s shoes. He had great empathy, but not for ordinary people. Not so much. He studied the worst of humanity, and could understand their twisted motives and desires. Bloch sometimes wondered if Lake saw parts of himself in those monsters.

‘What do you think their play is?’ asked Lake.

Bloch was silently praying one of the men would leave home. She would then kick Lake out of the car to keep an eye on the other target, and she would follow the first man in the Jeep. She was trying to think. The case and the events surrounding it were like broken pieces of a mosaic in her mind. She was tossing them around, seeing which ones fitted together and what kind of picture that made. So far, few of them fitted. And, even when they did, there was no clear picture. There were too many missing pieces.

Right then, the contemplative part of her mind shut down and another piece of her brain fired up. Because up ahead, Brett Bale stepped out of his front door and made his way down the porch steps to the sidewalk. He wore a navy Puffa jacket and blue jeans with sneakers. Ball cap and shades. Dressing down. That’s what she thought at first, then she glanced at the temperature reading on the dash – 93 degrees. Far too warm for a jacket like that. And it wasn’t as if he wore it loosely – he had it zipped up to his neck.

He walked past his sports car, and his Land Rover opened as he approached. His gait had changed. Normally, Brett Bale walked like a man with four billion dollars in cash in his bankaccount. A certain swagger. Shoulders back. Hands loose. Chin in the air.

Not this time. His right arm swung in time with his footsteps, but his left arm was close by his side and stiff.

Bloch noticed these things. It was her gift. Something that had given her a career. A calling. It was perhaps sometimes a curse too. While she could read a crime scene and observe and see what others could not, she couldn’t get a sense of when someone was upset, or vulnerable, sad or happy.