The Harry Bosch Novels

by Michael Connelly

He walked back out to the bar and signaled the bartender, who was standing all the way down at the other end smoking a cigarette. The man, about fifty, with faded blue tattoos webbing both forearms like extra veins, took his time coming over. By then Bosch had a ten-dollar bill on the bar.

  “Give me a couple coffees to go. Black. Put a lot of sugar in one of them.”

  “’Bout time you got outta here.” The bartender nodded at the ten-dollar bill. “And I’m taking out for the napkins, too. They’re not for cops who go round beat’n’ on people. That oughta ’bout cover it. You can just leave that on the bar.”

  He poured coffee that looked like it had been sitting in the glass pot since Christmas into foam cups. Bosch went to Porter’s spot at the bar and gathered up the Smith thirty-eight and the twenty-three dollars. He moved back to his ten-dollar bill and lit a cigarette.

  Not realizing Bosch was now watching, the bartender poured a gagging amount of sugar into both coffees. Bosch let it slide. After snapping plastic covers on the cups, the bartender brought them over to Bosch and tapped one of the tops, a smile that would make a woman frigid on his face.

  “This is the one with no — hey, what is this shit?”

  The ten Bosch had put down on the bar was now a one. Bosch blew smoke in the bartender’s face as he took the coffees and said, “That’s for the coffee. You can shove the napkins.”

  “Just get the fuck out of here,” the bartender said. Then he turned and started walking down to the other end of the bar, where several of the patrons were impatiently holding their empty glasses up. They needed more ice to chill their plasma.

  Bosch pushed the door to the restroom open with his foot but didn’t see Porter. He pushed the door to the only stall open and he wasn’t there either. Harry left the room and quickly pushed through the women’s restroom door. No Porter. He followed the hallway around another corner and saw a door marked Exit. He saw drops of blood on the floor. Regretting his play with the bartender and wondering if he’d be able to track Porter by calling hospitals and clinics, he hit the door’s push bar with his hip. It opened only an inch or so. There was something on the other side holding it closed.

  Bosch put the coffees down on the floor and put his whole weight on the door. It slowly moved open as the blockage gave way. He squeezed through and saw a Dumpster had been shoved against the door. He was standing in an alley behind Poe’s and the morning light, flowing down the alley from the east, was blinding.

  There was an abandoned Toyota, its wheels, hood and one door gone, sitting dead in the alley. There were more Dumpsters and the wind was blowing trash around in a swirl. And there was no sign of Porter.

  13

  Bosch sat at the counter at the Original Pantry drinking coffee, picking at a plate of eggs and bacon, and waiting for a second wind to come. He hadn’t bothered with trying to follow Porter. He knew that there would be no chance. Knowing Bosch wanted him, even a broken-down cop like Porter would know enough to stay away from the likely places Harry would look. He would stay in the wind.

  Harry had his notebook out and opened to the chronological chart he had constructed the day before. But he could not concentrate on it. He was too depressed. Depressed that Porter had run from him, that he hadn’t trusted him. Depressed that it seemed clear that Moore’s death was connected to the darkness that was out there at the outer edge of every cop’s vision. Moore had crossed over. And it had killed him.

  I found out who I was.

  The note bothered him, too. If Moore wasn’t a suicide, where did it come from? It made him think about what Sylvia Moore had said about the past, about how her husband had been snared in a trap he had set for himself. He then thought of calling her to tell her what he had learned but discarded the idea for the time being. He did not have the answers to questions she would surely ask. Why was Calexico Moore murdered? Who did it?

  It was just after eight o’clock. Bosch left money on the counter and walked out. Outside two homeless men shook cups in front of him and he acted like they weren’t even there. He drove over to Parker Center and got into the lot early enough to get a parking space. He first checked the Robbery-Homicide Division offices on the third floor but Sheehan wasn’t in yet. Next he went up to the fourth to Fugitives, to pick up where Porter would have if he hadn’t made his deal with Moore. Fugitives also handled missing-persons reports and Bosch always thought there was something symbiotic about that. Most missing persons were fugitives from something, some part of their lives.

  A missing-persons detective named Capetillo asked Bosch what he needed and Harry asked to see the male Latin missings for the last ten days. Capetillo led him to his desk and told him to have a seat while he went to the files. Harry looked around and his eyes fell on a framed photo of the portly detective posed with a woman and two young girls. A family man. Taped to the wall above the desk was a bullfight poster advertising the lineup for a fight two years earlier at Tijuana’s Bullring by the Sea. The names of the six matadors were listed down the right side. The entire left side of the poster was a reproduction of a painting of a matador turning with a charging bull, leading the horns away with the flowing red cape. The caption inscribed below the painting said “El Arte de la Muleta.”

  “The classic veronica.”

  Bosch turned. It was Capetillo and he was holding a thin file in one hand.

  “Excuse me?” Bosch asked.

  “The veronica. Do you know anything about the corrida de toros? The bull-fights?”

  “Never been.”

  “Magnificent. I go at least four times a year. Nothing compares to it. Football, basketball, nothing. The veronica is that move. He slyly leads the horns away. In Mexico the bullfight is called the brave festival, you know.”

  Bosch looked at the file in the detective’s hand. Capetillo opened it and handed Bosch a thin stack of papers.

  “That’s all we have in the last ten days,” Capetillo said. “Your Mexicans, Chicanos, a lot don’t report their missings to police. A cultural thing. Most just don’t trust the cops. Lot of times when people don’t turn up, they just figure they went south. A lot of people are here illegally. They won’t call the cops.”

  Bosch made it through the stack in five minutes. None of the reports fit the description of Juan Doe #67.

  “What about telexes, inquiries from Mexico?”

  “Now that’s something different. We keep official correspondence separate. I could look. Why don’t you tell me what you’re pushing.”

  “I’m pushing a hunch. I have a body with no identification. I think the man may have come from down there, maybe Mexicali. This is a guess more than anything else.”

  “Hang tight,” Capetillo said and he left the cubicle again.

  Bosch studied the poster again, noticing how the matador’s face betrayed no sign of indecision or fear, only concentration on the horns of death. The bullfighter’s eyes were flat and dead like a shark’s. Capetillo was back quickly.

  “Nice hunch. I have three reports received in the last two weeks. They all concern men that sound like your guy, but one more than the others. I think we got lucky.”

  He handed a single piece of paper to Bosch and said, “This one came from the consulate on Olvera Street yesterday.”

  It was a photocopy of a telex to the consulate by a State Judicial Police officer named Carlos Aguila. Bosch studied the letter, which was written in English

  Seeking information regarding the disappearance of Fernal GutierrezLlosa, 55, day laborer, Mexicali. Whereabouts unknown. Last sighting: 12/17 — Mexicali.

  Description: 5-foot-8, 145 pounds. Brown eyes, brown hair, some gray. Tattoo right upper chest (blue ink ghost symbol — City of Lost Souls barrio).

  Contact: Carlos Aguila, 57-20-13, Mexicali, B.C.

  Bosch reread the page. There wasn’t much there but it was enough. Fernal Gutierrez-Llosa disappeared in Mexicali on the seventeenth and early the next morning the body of Juan Doe #67 was found in Los Angeles. Bosch looked qui
ckly at the other two pages Capetillo had but they dealt with men who were too young to be Juan Doe #67. He went back to the first sheet. The tattoo was the clincher.

  “I think this is it,” he said. “Can I get a copy?”

  “Of course. You want me to call down there? See if they can send some prints up?”

  “Nah, not yet. I want to check a few other things out.” Actually, he wanted to limit Capetillo’s involvement to just the help he had given.

  “There’s one thing,” Bosch said. “You know what this City of Lost Souls description means? This reference to the tattoo.”

  “Yeah. Basically, the tattoo is a barrio symbol. Fernal Gutierrez-Llosa resided in the barrio Ciudad de los Personas Perdidos — City of Lost Souls. Many of the barrio dwellers down there do this. Mark themselves. It’s similar to graffiti up here. Only down there, they mark themselves and not the frigging walls as much. The police down there know what tattoos symbolize what barrios. It is fairly common in Mexicali. When you contact Aguila he can tell you. Maybe he can send you a photo, if you need it.”

  Bosch was silent for a moment as he pretended to reread the consulate paper. City of Lost Souls, he thought. A ghost. He tumbled this piece of information in his mind the way a boy who has found a baseball turns it in his hands to study the seams for wear. He was reminded of the tattoo on Moore’s arm. The devil with a halo. Was that from a Mexicali barrio?

  “You say the cops there keep track of these tattoos?”

  “That’s right. It’s one of the few decent jobs they do.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “I mean, have you ever been down there? On a detail? It’s third world, man. The police, uh, apparatus, I guess you’d call it, is very primitive by our standards. Fact, it would not surprise me if they have no fingerprints on this man to send you. I’m surprised they even sent anything to the consul here in the first place. This Aguila, he must’ve had a hunch like you.”

  Bosch took one last look at the poster on the wall, thanked Capetillo for his help and the copy of the consulate’s telex and then left the office.

  • • •

  He got on an elevator to go down and saw Sheehan already on it. The car was crowded and Sheehan was at the back, behind the pile. They didn’t talk until they got off on three.

  “Hey, Frankie,” Bosch said. “Didn’t get a chance to talk to you Christmas night.”

  “What’re you doing here, Harry?”

  “I’m waiting for you. You must be running late, or do you check in on the fifth floor nowadays?”

  That was a little poke at Sheehan. The IAD squads were on the fifth floor. It was also to let Sheehan know that Harry had an idea of what was going on with the Moore case. Since Sheehan was going down, he had come from either the fifth or sixth floors. That was either IAD or Irving’s office. Or maybe both.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Bosch. Reason I haven’t been in is I’ve been busy this morning, thanks to the games you like to play.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Look, I don’t like you being seen with me in here, anyway. Irving gave me specific instructions about you. You are not in this investigation. You helped out the other night but it ended there.”

  They were in the hallway outside the RHD offices. Bosch didn’t like the sound of Sheehan’s tone. He had never known Frankie to bow his head to the brass like this.

  “C’mon, Frankie, let’s go get a cup. You can tell me what’s bugging you.”

  “Nothing’s bugging me, man. You forget, I worked with you. I know how you get your teeth on something and won’t let go. Well, I’m telling you where things stand. You were there the night we found him. It ended there. Go back to Hollywood.”

  Bosch took a step toward him and lowered his voice. He said, “But we both know it didn’t end there, Frankie. And it’s not going to end there. So if you feel you gotta do it, go tell Irving I said it’s so.”

  Sheehan stared at him for a few seconds and then Bosch saw the resolve fade away.

  “Awright, Harry, c’mon in. I’m going to be kicking myself for this later.” They walked to Sheehan’s desk and Bosch pulled a chair from another desk alongside it. Sheehan took off his coat and put it on a hanger on a rack next to the desk. After he sat down, adjusted his shoulder holster and folded his arms, he said:

  “Know where I’ve been all morning? The ME’s, trying to work out a deal to keep a lid on this a few hours. Seems overnight we sprang a leak and already this morning Irving’s getting calls that we are sitting on a homicide of one of our own officers. You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?”

  Harry said, “Only thing I know is I’ve been thinking about the scene out at the motel and the autopsy being inconclusive, like they say, and I’m not thinking suicide anymore.”

  “You’re not thinking anything. You’re not on it. Remember? And what about this?”

  He opened a drawer and brought a file up. It was the Zorrillo file Rickard had shown him the day before.

  “Don’t bother telling me you haven’t seen this before. Because then I might take it over to SID and have ’em run prints on it. I’d bet my wife’s diaphragm I’d find yours.”

  “You’d lose, Frankie.”

  “Then I’d have more kids. But I wouldn’t lose, Harry.”

  Bosch waited a beat for him to settle down.

  “All this huffin’ and puffin’ at me tells me one thing: you don’t see a suicide, either. So quit with the bullshit.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. But I got an assistant chief sitting on my ass and he’s gotten the bright idea of sticking me with an IAD suit on this. So it’s like I got both my feet in buckets of shit before I even start off.”

  “You saying they don’t want this to go anywhere?”

  “No, I am not saying that.”

  “What are they going to tell the Times?”

  “Press conference this afternoon. Irving’s going to give it to everybody. He’ll say we are looking at the possibility — the possibility — of homicide. Fuck giving it to the Times. Who said it was the Times making the noise anyway?”

  “Lucky, I guess.”

  “Yeah, be careful, Bosch. You slip like that with Irving and he’ll fry your ass. He’d love to, with your record and all the history going back with you. I already have to figure out about this file. You told Irving you didn’t know the guy and now we have a file that shows he was doing some digging for you.”

  Bosch realized he had forgotten to remove the Post-it tag Moore had placed on the file.

  “Tell Irving whatever you want. Think I care?” Bosch looked down at the file. “What do you think?”

  “About this file? I think nothing out loud.”

  “C’mon, Frankie, I ask Moore to look around on this dope killing and he ends up in a motel with his head in the tub in small pieces. It was a very smooth job, right down to not a single lift belonging to anybody else being found in that room.”

  “So what if it was smooth and there’s no other prints? In my book some guys deserve what they got coming, you know?”

  There was the break in Sheehan’s defense. Whether intentional or not, he was telling Bosch that Moore had crossed.

  “I need more than that,” he said in a very low voice. “You got the weight on you but I don’t. I’m a free agent and I’m going to put it together. Moore might’ve crossed, yeah, but nobody should’ve put him down on the tiles like that. We both know that. Besides, there are other bodies.”

  Harry could see this had grabbed Sheehan’s attention.

  “We can trade,” Bosch said quietly.

  Sheehan stood up and said, “Yeah, let’s go get that coffee.”

  Five minutes later they were at a table in the second-floor cafeteria and Bosch was telling him about Jimmy Kapps and Juan Doe #67. He outlined the connections between Moore and Juan Doe, Juan Doe and Mexicali, Mexicali and Humberto Zorillo, Zorillo and black ice, black ice and Jimmy Kapps. On and on it went.
Sheehan asked no questions and took no notes until Harry was done.

  “So what do you think?” he asked then.

  “I think what you think,” Bosch said. “That Moore had crossed. Maybe he was fronting up here for Zorillo, the ice man, and got so deep he couldn’t get out. I don’t know how it all ties up yet but I still have some ideas I am playing with. I’m thinking a number of things. Maybe he wanted out and the ice man whacked him. Maybe he was working that file, going to give me something, and they whacked him.”

  “Possibilities.”

  “There’s also the possibility that word of the IAD investigation your partner Chastain was conducting got around, and they saw Moore as a danger and whacked him.”

  Sheehan hesitated. It was the moment of truth. If he discussed the IAD investigation he would be breaking enough departmental regs to get shipped permanently out of RHD. Like Harry.

  “I could get busted for talking about that,” Sheehan said. “Could end up like you, out there in the cesspool.”

  “It’s all a cesspool, man. Doesn’t matter if you’re on the bottom or the top. You’re still swimming in shit.”

  Sheehan took a sip of his coffee.

  “IAD had taken a report, this was about two months ago, that Moore was some way involved in the traffic on the Boulevard. Possibly offering protection, possibly a deeper involvement. The source was not clear on that.”

  “Two months ago?” Bosch asked. “Didn’t they get anything? I mean, Moore was still working the street all this time. Wasn’t there enough to at least put him on a desk?”

  “Look, you’ve got to remember that Irving put Chastain with me on this. But I’m not with Chastain. He doesn’t do much talking to me. All he would tell me was the investigation was in its infancy when Moore disappeared. He had no proof substantiating or discrediting the claim.”

  “You know how hard he worked it?”

  “I assume very hard. He’s IAD. He’s always looking for a badge to pull. And this looked like more than just departmental charges. This would have gone to the DA. So I assume he had a hard-on for it. He just didn’t get anything. Moore must’ve been very good.”