“Yes. I have photos. The letter said Gutierrez-Llosa was a laborer?”
“Yes. He found day work at the circle where employers come to find workers. Beneath the statue of Benito Juarez.”
“Do you know if he worked at a place, a business called EnviroBreed? It does business with the state of California.”
There was a long silence before the Mexican replied.
“I am sorry. I do not know of his work history. I have taken notes and will discuss this with Investigator Aguila upon his return. If you send the photographs we will act promptly on securing positive identification. I will personally expedite this matter and contact you.”
Now Bosch let silence fill the phone connection.
“Captain, I didn’t get your name.”
“Gustavo Grena, director of investigations, Mexicali.”
“Captain Grena, please tell Aguila that he will have the photos tomorrow.”
“That soon?”
“Yes. Tell him I’m bringing them down myself.”
“Investigator Bosch, this is not necessary. I believe—”
“Don’t worry, Captain Grena,” Bosch cut him off. “Tell him I will be there by early afternoon, no later.”
“As you wish.”
Bosch thanked him and hung up. He looked up and saw Pounds staring at him through the glass in his office. The lieutenant raised his thumb and his eyebrows in an inquiring, pleading way. Bosch looked away.
A laborer, Bosch thought. Fernal Gutierrez-Llosa was a day laborer who got jobs at the circle, whatever that was. How did a day laborer fit? Perhaps he was a mule who brought black ice across the border. And perhaps he had not been a part of the smuggling operation at all. Perhaps he had done nothing to warrant his death other than to be somewhere he should not have been, seen something he should not have seen.
What Bosch had were just parts of the whole. What he needed was the glue that would correctly hold them together. When he had first received his gold shield he had a partner on the robbery table in Van Nuys who told him that facts weren’t the most important part of an investigation, the glue was. He said the glue was made of instinct, imagination, sometimes guesswork and most times just plain luck.
Two nights earlier Bosch had looked at the facts that lay inside a run-down motel room and from them extrapolated a cop’s suicide. He now knew he’d been wrong. He considered the facts again, along with everything else he had collected, and this time he saw a cop’s murder as one of several connected murders. If Mexicali was the hub of the wheel with so many spokes, then Moore was the bolt that held the wheel on.
He took out his notebook and looked up the name of the DEA agent who was listed on the intelligence report Moore had put in the Zorrillo file. He then got the DEA’s local number out of his Rolodex and dialed it. The man who answered asked who was calling when Bosch asked for Corvo.
“Tell him it’s the ghost of Calexico Moore.”
One minute later a voice said, “Who’s this?”
“Corvo?”
“Look, you want to talk, give me an ID. Otherwise I hang up.”
Bosch identified himself.
“What’s with the ruse, man?”
“Never mind. I want to meet.”
“You haven’t given me a reason yet.”
“You want a reason? Okay. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to Mexicali. I’m going after Zorrillo. I could use some help from somebody who knows his shit. I thought you might want to talk first. Being that you were Cal Moore’s source.”
“Who says I even knew the guy?”
“You took my call, didn’t you? You also were passing DEA intelligence to him. He told me.”
“Bosch, I spent seven years under. You trying to bluff me? Uh-uh. Try some of the eightball dealers on Hollywood Boulevard
. They might buy your line.”
“Look, man, at seven o’clock I’ll be at the Code Seven, in the back bar. After that, I’ll be heading south. It’s your choice. If I see you, I see you.”
“And if I decide to show up, how will I know you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll know you. You’ll be the guy who still thinks he’s undercover.”
When he hung up, Harry looked up and saw Pounds hovering near the homicide table, standing there reading the latest CAP report, another sore subject for the division’s statisticians. Crimes Against Persons, meaning all crimes of violence, were growing at a rate faster than the overall crime rate. That meant not only was crime going up but the criminals were becoming meaner, more prone to violence. Bosch noticed the white dust on the upper part of the lieutenant’s pants. It was there often and was cause for great comical debate and derision in the squad room. Some of the dicks said he was probably blowing coke up his nose and was just sloppy about it. This was especially humorous because Pounds was one of the department’s born-agains. Others said the mystery dust was from sugar doughnuts that he secretly scarfed down in the glass booth after closing the blinds so no one would see. Bosch, though, figured it out once he identified the odor that was always about Pounds. Harry believed the lieutenant had the habit of putting baby powder on in the morning before he put on his shirt and tie—but after putting on his pants.
Pounds looked away from his report and said in a phoney matter-of-fact voice, “So how’s it looking? Getting anywhere with the cases?”
Bosch smiled reassuringly and nodded but said nothing. He’d make Pounds work for it.
“Well, what’s up?”
“Oh, some things. Have you heard from Porter today?”
“Porter? No, why? Forget about him, Bosch. He’s a mutt. He can’t help you. What have you got? You haven’t filed any updates. I just went through the box. Nothing from you there.”
“I’ve been busy, Lieutenant. I got something going on Jimmy Kapps and I got an ID and possible death scene on Porter’s last case. The one dumped in the alley off Sunset last week. I’m close to knowing who and why. Maybe tomorrow on both of them. I’m going to work through the weekend if that’s okay with you.”
“Excellent. By all means, take the time you need. I’ll fill the overtime authorization out today.”
“Thanks.”
“But why juggle the cases? Why don’t you pick the one you think is easier to complete? We need to clear a case.”
“I think the cases are related, that’s why.”
“Are you—” Then Pounds held up his hand, signaling Bosch not to speak. “Better come into my office for this.”
After sitting down behind his glass-topped desk, Pounds immediately picked up his ruler and began manipulating it in his hand.
“Okay, Harry, what’s going on?”
Bosch was going to wing it. He tried to make his voice sound as though he had hard evidence to back everything he was saying. Truth was it was all a lot of speculation and not a lot of glue. He sat down in the chair in front of the lieutenant’s desk. He could smell the baby powder on the other man.
“Jimmy Kapps was a payback. Found out yesterday that he set up a bust on a competitor named Dance. He was putting black ice out on the street. Jimmy apparently didn’t like that ’cause he’s trying to make Hawaiian ice the growth market. So he snitched Dance off to the BANG guys. Only after Dance got taken down, the DA kicked the case. A bad bust. He walked. Four days later Kapps gets the whack.”
“Okay, okay,” Pounds said. “Sounds good. Dance is your suspect then?”
“Until I come up with something better. He’s in the wind.”
“Okay, now how does this tie in with the Juan Doe case?”
“The DEA says the black ice that Dance was putting out comes from Mexicali. I got a tentative ID from the state police down there. Looks like our Juan Doe was a guy named Gutierrez-Llosa. He was from Mexicali.”
“A mule?”
“Possibly. Couple things don’t fit with that. The state police down there carried him as a day laborer.”
“Maybe he went for the big money. A lot of them do.”
“Maybe.”
“And you think he got whacked back, a payback for Kapps?”
“Maybe.”
Pounds nodded. So far so good, Bosch thought. They were both silent for a few moments. Pounds finally cleared his throat.
“That’s quite a lot of work for two days, Harry. Very good. Now where do you go from here?”
“I want to go after Dance and get the Juan Doe ID confirmed . . .” He trailed off. He wasn’t sure how much to give Pounds. He knew he was going to keep his trip to Mexicali out of it.
“You said Dance is in the wind.”
“I’m told that by a source. I’m not sure. I plan to go looking this weekend.”
“Fine.”
Bosch decided to open the door a little further.
“There’s more to it, if you want to hear it. It’s about Cal Moore.”
Pounds put the ruler down on the desk, folded his arms and leaned back. His posture signaled caution. They were stepping into an area where careers could be permanently damaged.
“Aren’t we getting on thin ice, here? The Moore case is not ours.”
“And I don’t want it, Lieutenant. I’ve got these two. But it keeps coming up. If you don’t want to know, fine. I can deal with it.”
“No, no, I want you to tell me. I just don’t like this kind of . . . uh, entanglement. That’s all.”
“Yeah, entanglement is a good word. Anyway, like I said, it was the BANG crew that made the Dance bust. Moore wasn’t there until after it went down, but it was his crew.
“After that, you have Moore finding the body on the Juan Doe case.”
“Cal Moore found the body?” Pounds said. “I didn’t see that in Porter’s book.”
“He’s in there by badge number. Anyway, he was the one that found the body dumped there. So you’ve got his presence around both of these cases. Then, the day after he finds Juan Doe in the alley he checks into that motel and gets his brains splattered in the bathtub. I suppose you’ve heard RHD now says it was no suicide.”
Pounds nodded. But he had a paralysed look on his face. He had thought he was going to get a summary of a couple of case investigations. Not this.
“Somebody whacked him, too,” Bosch continued. “So now you have three cases. You have Kapps, then Juan Doe, then Moore. And you have Dance in the wind.”
Bosch knew he had said enough. He could now sit back and watch Pounds’s mind go to work. He knew that the lieutenant knew that he should probably pick up the phone and call Irving to ask for assistance or at least direction. But Pounds knew that a call like that would result in RHD taking jurisdiction over the Kapps and Juan Doe cases. And the RHD dicks would take their sweet-ass time about it. Pounds wouldn’t see any of the cases closed out for weeks.
“What about Porter? What’s he say about all of this?”
Bosch had been doing his best to keep Porter clear. He didn’t know why. Porter had fallen and had lied, but somewhere inside Bosch still felt something. Maybe it was that last question. Harry, you going to take care of me on this?
“I haven’t found Porter,” Bosch lied. “No answer on his phone. But I don’t think he’d had much time to put all of this together.”
Pounds shook his head disdainfully.
“Of course not. He probably was on a drunk.”
Bosch didn’t say anything. It was in Pounds’s court now.
“Listen, Harry, you’re not . . . you’re being straight with me here, right? I can’t afford to have you running around like a loose cannon. I’ve got it all, right?”
Bosch knew that what he meant was he wanted to know how badly he could be fucked if this went to shit.
Bosch said, “You know what I know. There are two cases, probably three, including Moore, out there to be cleared. You want ’em cleared in six, eight weeks, then I’ll write up the paper and you can ship it to Parker Center. If you want to get them cleared by the first like you said, then let me have the four days.”
Pounds was staring off somewhere above Bosch’s head and using the ruler to scratch himself behind the ear. He was making a decision.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Take the weekend and see what you can do. We’ll see where things stand Monday. We might have to call in RHD then. Meantime, I want to hear from you tomorrow and Sunday. I want to know your movements, what’s happening, what progress has been made.”
“You got it,” Bosch said. He stood up and turned to leave. He noticed that above the door was a small crucifix. He wondered if that had been what Pounds had been staring at. Most said he was a political born-again. There were a lot in the department. They all joined a church up in the Valley because one of the assistant chiefs was a lay preacher there. Bosch guessed they all went there Sunday mornings and gathered around him, told him what a great guy he was.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then,” Pounds said from behind.
“Right. Tomorrow.”
A short while after that, Pounds locked his office and went home. Bosch hung around the office alone, drinking coffee and smoking and waiting for the six o’clock news. There was a small black-and-white television on top of the file cabinet behind the autos table. He turned it on and played with the rabbit ears until he got a reasonably clear picture. A couple of the uniforms walked down from the watch office to watch.
Cal Moore had finally made the top of the news. Channel 2 led with a report on the press conference at Parker Center in which Assistant Chief Irvin Irving revealed new developments. The tape showed Irving at a cluster of microphones. Teresa stood behind him. Irving credited her with finding new evidence during the autopsy that pointed to homicide. Irving said a full-scale homicide investigation was underway. The report ended with a photograph of Moore and a voiceover from the reporter.
“Investigators now have the task, and they say the personal obligation, to dig deep into the life of Sergeant Calexico Moore to determine what it was that led him to the beat-up motel room where someone executed him. Sources tell me the investigators do not have much to start with, but they do start with a debt of thanks to the acting chief medical examiner, who discovered a murder that had been written off . . . as a cop’s lonely suicide.”
The camera zoomed in closer on Moore’s face here and the reporter ended it, “And so, the mystery begins . . .”
Bosch turned the TV off after the report. The uniforms went back down the hall and he went back to his spot at the homicide table and sat down. The picture they had shown of Moore had been taken a few years back, Harry guessed. His face was younger, the eyes clearer. There was no portent of a hidden life.
Thinking about it brought to mind the other photographs, the ones Sylvia Moore had said her husband had collected over his life and looked at from time to time. What else had he saved from the past? Bosch didn’t have one photo of his mother. He hadn’t known his father until the old man was on his deathbed. What baggage did Cal Moore carry with him?
It was time for him to head for the Code Seven. But before heading out to the car, Harry walked down the hall to the watch office. He picked up the clipboard that hung on the wall next to the wanted flyers and carried the station’s duty roster clipped to it. He doubted that it would have been updated in the last week and he was correct. He found Moore’s name and address in Los Feliz on the page listing sergeants. He copied the address into his notebook and then headed out.
17
Bosch dragged deeply on a cigarette and then dropped the butt into the gutter. He hesitated before pulling the billy club that was the door handle of the Code Seven. He stared across First Street
to the grass square that flanked City Hall and was called Freedom Park. Beneath the sodium lights he saw the bodies of homeless men and women sprawled asleep in the grass around the war memorial. They looked like casualties on a battlefield, the unburied dead.
He went inside, walked through the front restaurant and then parted the black curtains that hid the entrance to the bar like a judge’s robes. The place was crowded with lawyer
s and cops and blue with cigarette smoke. They had all come to wait out the rush hour and either gotten too comfortable or too drunk. Harry went down to the end of the bar where the stools were empty and ordered a beer and a shot. It was seven on the dot according to the Miller clock over the bar. He scanned the room in the mirror behind the bar but saw nobody he could assume was the DEA agent Corvo. He lit another cigarette and decided he would give it until eight.
The moment he decided that he looked back in the mirror and saw a short, dark man with a full black beard split the curtain and hesitate as his eyes focused in the dim bar. He wore blue jeans and a pullover shirt. Bosch saw the pager on his belt and the bulge the gun made under his shirt. The man looked around until their eyes met in the mirror and Harry nodded once. Corvo came over and took the stool next to him.
The Black Ice (1993) Page 17