The Black Ice hb-2

by Michael Connelly

  “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.

  Chapter 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 lawyers 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.

  “So you made me,” Corvo said.

  “And you made me. I guess we both need to go back to the academy. You want a beer?”

  “Look, Bosch, before you start getting friendly on me, I gotta tell you I don’t know about this. I don’t know what this is about. I haven’t decided whether to talk to you.”

  Harry took his cigarette from the ashtray and looked at Corvo in the mirror.

  “I haven’t decided if Certs is a breath mint or a candy.”

  Corvo slid back off his stool.

  “Have a good one.”

  “C’mon Corvo, have a beer, why don’t you? Relax, man.”

  “I checked you out before I came over. The line on you is that you’re just another head case. You’re on the fast track to nowhere. RHD to Hollywood, the next stop probably riding shotgun in a Wells Fargo truck.”

  “No, the next stop is Mexicali. And I can go down there blind, maybe walk in on whatever you got going with Zorrillo, or you can help me and yourself by telling me what’s what.”

  “What’s what is that you aren’t going to do anything down there. I leave here I pick up the phone and your trip is over.”

  “I leave here and I’m gone, on my way. Too late to stop. Have a seat. If I’ve been an asshole, I’m sorry. It’s the way I am sometimes. But I need you guys and you guys need me.”

  Corvo still didn’t sit down.

  “Bosch, what are you gonna do? Go down to the ranch, put the pope over your shoulder and carry him back up here? That it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Shit.”

  “Actually, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m just going to play it as it comes. Maybe I never see the pope, maybe I do. You want to risk it?”

  Corvo slid back onto the stool and signaled the bartender. He ordered the same as Bosch. In the mirror Bosch noticed a long, thick scar cutting through the right side of Corvo’s beard. If he had grown the beard to cover the purplish-pink slug on his cheek, it hadn’t worked. Then again, maybe he didn’t want it to. Most DEA agents Bosch knew or had worked with had a macho swagger about them. A scar couldn’t hurt. It was a life of bluffing and bluster. Scars were worn like badges of courage. But Bosch wondered if the guy could do much undercover work with such a recognizable physical anomaly.

  After the bartender put down the drinks, Corvo threw back the shot like a man used to it.

  “So,” he said. “What are you really going down there for? And why should I trust you the least bit?”

  Bosch thought about it for a few moments.

  “Because I can give you Zorrillo.”

  “Shit.”

  Bosch didn’t say anything. He had to give Corvo his due, had to let him run out his string. After he was
done posturing they would get down to business. Bosch thought at the moment that the one thing the movies and TV shows didn’t get wrong or overexaggerate was the relationship of jealousy and distrust that existed between local and federal cops. One side always thought it was better, wiser, more qualified. Usually, the side that thought that was wrong.

  “Okay,” Corvo said. “I’ll bite. What have you got?”

  “Before I get into it. I have one question. Who are you, man? I mean, you’re up here in L.A. Why are you the one in Moore’s files? How come you’re the expert on Zorrillo?”

  “That’s about ten questions. The basic answer to all of them is I’m a control agent on an investigation in Mexicali that is being jointly worked by Mexico City and L.A. offices. We are equidistant; we are splitting the case. I’m not telling you anything else until I know you’re worth talking to. Talk.”

  Bosch told him about Jimmy Kapps, Juan Doe and the ties between their deaths and Dance and Moore and the Zorrillo operation. Lastly, he said that he had information that Dance had gone to Mexico, probably Mexicali, after Moore was murdered.

  Corvo drained his beer glass and said, “Tell me something, because it’s a big fucking hole in your scenario. How come you think this Juan Doe was whacked out down there? And then, how come his body was taken all the way up here? Doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “The autopsy puts his death six to eight hours before Moore found it, or said he found it up here. There were things about the autopsy that tie it to Mexicali, to a specific location in Mexicali. I think they wanted to get it out of Mexicali to make sure it was not connected to that location. It got sent to L.A. because there was already a truck heading this way. It was convenient.”

  “You’re talking jigsaws, Bosch. What location are we talking about?”

  “We aren’t talking. That’s the problem. I’m talking. You haven’t said shit. But I’m here to trade. I know your record. You guys haven’t taken down one of Zorrillo’s shipments. I can give you Zorrillo’s pipeline. What can you give me?”