The Black Ice hb-2

by Michael Connelly

  “Who?”

  “I think it was a man from down here named Humberto Zorrillo.”

  “This seems too farfetched. There were other IDs. I remember that day in the suite. What’s his name, Sheehan, he got a call from SID saying they matched prints in the motel room to Moore. They used a different set than we did. It’s a double-blind confirmation, Harry. Then we have the tattoo. And the dental. How do you explain all of that?”

  “Look, Teresa, listen to me. It all can be explained. It all works. The dental? You told me you only found one usable fragment, part of a root canal. That meant no root was left. It was a dead tooth so you could not tell how long it had been out, only that it matched his dentist’s charts. That’s fine, but one of Moore’s crew told me he once saw Moore get punched during a Boulevard brawl and he lost a tooth. That could’ve been it, I don’t know.”

  “Okay, what about the prints in the room? Explain that?”

  “Easy. Those were his prints. Donovan, the SID guy, told me he pulled prints from the Department of Justice computer. Those would have been Moore’s real prints. That meant he was really in the room. It doesn’t mean it’s his body. Normally, one set of exemplars-the ones from the DOJ computer-would be used to do all the match work, but Irving screwed it up by going to the P-file. And that’s the beauty of Moore’s plan. He knew Irving or someone in the department would do it this way. He could count on it because he knew the department would put a rush on the autopsy, the ID, everything, because it was a fellow officer. It’s been done before and he knew they would do it for him.”

  “Donovan never did a cross-match between our prints and the set he pulled?”

  “Nope, because it wasn’t the routine. He might’ve gotten around to it later when he thought about it. But things were happening too fast on this case.”

  “Shit,” she said. He knew he was winning her over. “What about the tattoo?”

  “It’s a barrio insignia. A lot of people could have had them. I think Zorrillo had one.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He grew up with Moore down here. They might be brothers, I don’t know. Anyway, Zorrillo became the local drug kingpin. Moore went to L.A. and became a cop. But somehow Moore was working for him up there. The story goes on from there. The DEA raided Zorrillo’s ranch last night. He got away. But I don’t think it was Zorrillo. It was Moore.”

  “You saw him?”

  “I didn’t need to.”

  “Is anyone looking for him?”

  “The DEA is looking. They’re concentrating in interior Mexico. Then again, they’re looking for Zorrillo. Moore may never turn up again.”

  “It all seems… You’re saying Moore killed Zorrillo and then traded places with him?”

  “Yeah. Somehow he got Zorrillo to L.A. They meet at the Hideaway and Moore puts him down-the trauma to the back of the head you found. He puts his boots and clothes on the body. Then he blows the face away with the shotgun. He makes sure to leave some of his own prints around to make Donovan bite and puts the note in the back pocket.

  “I think the note worked on a number of levels. It was taken as a suicide note at first. Authenticating the handwriting helped add to the identification. On another level, I think it was something personal between Moore and Zorrillo. Goes back to the barrio. ‘Who are you?’ ‘I found out who I was.’ That part of it is a long story.”

  They were both silent for a while, rethinking all of what Bosch had just said. He knew there were still a lot of loose ends. A lot of deception.

  “Why all the killings?” she asked. “Porter and Juan Doe, what did they have to do with anything?”

  This is where he had few answers.

  “I don’t know. They were somehow in the way, I guess. Zorrillo had Jimmy Kapps killed because he was an informant. I think Moore was the one who told Zorrillo. After that Juan Doe-his name, by the way, is Gutierrez-Llosa-gets beaten to death down here and taken up there. I don’t know why. Then Moore pops Zorrillo and takes his place. Why he had to do Porter, I don’t know. I guess he thought Lou might figure it out.”

  “That’s so cold.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How could it happen?” she asked then, more to herself than Bosch. “They are about to bury him, this drug dealer… full honors, the mayor and chief there. The media.”

  “And you’ll know the truth.”

  She thought about that for a long time before asking the next question.

  “Why did he do it?”

  “I don’t know. We’re talking about different lives. The cop and the drug dealer. But there must’ve been something still between them, that bond-whatever it is-from the barrio. And somehow one day the cop crosses over, starts watching out for the dealer on the streets of L.A. Who knows what made him do it. Maybe money, maybe just something he had lost a long time ago when he was a kid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still thinking.”

  “If they were that close, why did he kill him?”

  “I guess we’ll have to ask him. If we ever find him. Maybe he-maybe like you said it was just to take Zorrillo’s place. All that money. Or maybe it was guilt. He got in too far and he needed a way to end it… Moore was-or is-hung up on the past. His wife said that. Maybe he was trying to recapture something, go back. I don’t know yet.”

  There was silence on the line again. Bosch took a last drag on his cigarette.

  “The plan seems almost perfect,” he said. “He leaves a body behind in circumstances he knew would make the department not want to come looking.”

  “But you did, Harry.”

  “Yeah.”

  And here I am, he thought. He knew what he had to do now. He had to finish it. He could see the ghostly figures of several people in the park now. They were waking to another day of desperation.

  “Why did you call me, Harry? What do you want me to do?”

  “I called because I have to trust someone. I could only think of you, Teresa.”

  “Then what do you want me to do?”

  “You have access to the DOJ prints in your office, right?”

  “That’s how we make most of our IDs. That’s how we will make all of them after this. I have Irving by the balls now.”

  “Do you still have the print card he brought over for the autopsy?”

  “Um, I don’t know. But I’m sure the techs made a copy of it to keep with the body. You want me to do the cross-check?”

  “Yeah, do a cross and you’ll see they don’t match.”

  “You’re so sure.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure but you might as well confirm it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then, I guess, I’ll see you at the funeral. I’ve got one more stop to make and then I’m heading up.”

  “What stop?”

  “I want to check out a castle. It’s part of the long story. I’ll tell you later.”

  “You don’t want to try to stop the funeral?”

  Harry thought a few moments before answering. He thought of Sylvia Moore and the mystery she still held for him. Then he thought about the idea of a drug lord getting a cop’s farewell.

  “No, I don’t want to stop it. Do you?”

  “No way.”

  He knew her reasons were far different from his. But he didn’t care about that. Teresa was well on her way to winning her assignment as permanent chief medical examiner. If Irving got in her way now, he’d end up looking like one of the customers in the autopsy suite. In that case, more power to her, he thought.

  “I’ll see you in a little bit,” he said.

  “Be careful, Harry.”

  Bosch hung up and lit another cigarette. The morning sun was up now and beginning to burn the ground fog off the park. People were moving around over there. He thought he heard a woman laughing. But at the moment he felt very much alone in the world.

  Chapter 32

  Bosch pulled his car up to the front gate at the end of Coyote Trail and saw
that the circular driveway in front of Castillo de los Ojos was still empty. But the thick chain that had secured the two halves of the iron gate the day before hung loose and the lock was open. Moore was here.

  Harry left his car there, blocking the exit, and slipped through the gate on foot. He ran across the brown lawn in a crouched, uneasy trot, mindful that the windows of the tower looked down at him like the dark accusing eyes of a giant. He pressed himself against the stucco surface of the wall next to the front door. He was breathing heavily and sweating, though the morning air was still quite cool.

  The knob was locked. He stood there unmoving for a long period, listening for something but hearing nothing. Finally, he ducked below the line of windows that fronted the first floor and moved around the house to the side of the four-bay garage. There was another door here and it, too, was locked.

  Bosch recognized the rear of the house from the photographs that had been in Moore’s bag. He saw the sliding doors running along the pool deck. One door was open and the wind buffeted the white curtain. It flapped like a hand beckoning him to come in.

  The open door led to a large living room. It was full of ghosts-furniture covered by musty white sheets. Nothing else. He moved to his left, silently passing through the kitchen and opening a door to the garage. There was one car, which was covered by more sheets, and a pale green panel van. It saidMEXITEC on the side. Bosch touched the van’s hood and found it still warm. Through the windshield he saw a sawed-off shotgun lying across the passenger seat. He opened the unlocked door and took the weapon out. As quietly as he could, he cracked it open and saw both barrels were loaded with double-ought shells. He closed the weapon, holstered his own, and carried it with him.

  He pulled the sheet off the front end of the other car and recognized it as the Thunderbird he had seen in the father-and-son photo in Moore’s bag. Looking at the car, Bosch wondered how far back you have to go to trace the reason for a person’s choices in life. He didn’t know the answer about Moore. He didn’t know the answer about himself.

  He went back to the living room and stopped and listened. There was nothing. The house seemed still, empty, and it smelled dusty, like time spent slowly and painfully in wait for something or someone not coming. All the rooms were full of ghosts. He was considering the shape of a shrouded fan chair when he heard the noise. From above, like the sound of a shoe dropping on a wood floor.

  He moved toward the front and in the entry area he saw the wide stone staircase. Bosch moved up the steps. The noise from above was not repeated.

  On the second floor he went down a carpeted hallway, looking through the doors to four bedrooms and two bathrooms but finding each room empty.

  He went back to the stairs and up into the tower. The lone door at the top landing was open and Harry heard no sound. He crouched and moved slowly into the opening, the sawed-off leading the way like a water finder’s divining rod.

  Moore was there. Standing with his back to the door and looking at himself in the mirror. The mirror was on the back of a closet door which was open slightly, angling the glass so that it did not catch Harry’s reflection. He watched Moore unseen for a few moments, then looked around. There was a bed in the center of the room with an open suitcase on it. Next to it was a gym bag that was zipped closed and already appeared to be packed. Moore still had not moved. He was intently staring at the reflection of his face. He had a full beard now, and his eyes were brown. He wore faded blue jeans, new snakeskin boots, a black T-shirt and a black leather jacket with matching gloves. He was Melrose Avenue cool. From a distance he could easily pass for the pope of Mexicali.

  Bosch saw the wood grips and chrome handle of an automatic tucked into Moore’s belt.

  “You going to say something, Harry? Or just stare.”

  Without moving his hands or head, Moore shifted his weight to the left and then he and Bosch were staring at each other in the mirror.

  “Picked up a new pair of boots before you put Zorrillo down, didn’t you?”

  Now Moore turned completely to face him. But he didn’t say anything.

  “Keep your hands out front like that,” Bosch said.

  “Whatever you say, Harry. You know, I kinda thought that if somebody came, you’d be the one.”

  “You wanted somebody to come, didn’t you?”

  “Some days I did. Some days I didn’t.”

  Bosch moved into the room and then took a step sideways so he was directly facing Moore.

  “New contacts, beard. You look like the pope-from a distance. But how’d you convince his lieutenants, hisguardia. They were just going to stand back and let you move in and take his place?”

  “Money convinced them. They’d probably let you move in there if you had the bread, Harry. See, anything is negotiable when you have your hands on the purse strings. And I did.”

  Moore nodded slightly toward the duffel bag on the bed.

  “How about you? I have money. Not much. About a hundred and ten grand there.”

  “I figured you’d be running away with a fortune.”

  “Oh, I am. I am. What’s in the bag is just what I have on hand. You caught me a little short. But I can get you more. It’s in the banks.”

  “Guess you’ve been practicing Zorrillo’s signature as well as his looks.”

  Moore didn’t answer.

  “Who was he?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  “Half brother. Different fathers.”

  “This place. This is what it was all about, wasn’t it? It’s the castle you lived in before you were sent away.”

  “Something like that. Decided to buy it after he was gone. But it’s falling apart on me. It’s so hard to take care of something you love these days. Everything is a chore.”

  Bosch tried to study him. He looked tired of it all.

  “What happened back at the ranch?” Bosch asked.

  “You mean the three bodies? Yes, well, I guess you could say justice happened. Grena was a leech who had been sucking Zorrillo for years. Arpis detached him, you could say.”

  “Then who detached Arpis and Dance?”

  “I did that, Harry.”

  He said it without hesitation and the words froze Bosch. Moore was a cop. He knew never to confess. You didn’t talk until there was a lawyer by your side, a plea bargain in place, and a deal that was signed.

  Harry adjusted his sweating hands on the sawed-off. He took a step forward and listened for any other sound in the house. There was only silence until Moore spoke again.

  “I’m not going back, Harry. I guess you know that.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, as if it was a given, something that had been decided a long time ago.

  “How’d you get Zorrillo up to L.A., and then into that motel room? How’d you get his prints for the personnel file?”

  “You want me to tell you, Harry? Then what?”

  Moore looked down at the gym bag briefly.

  “Then nothing. We’re going back to L.A. You haven’t been advised-nothing you can say now can be used against you. It’s just you and me here.”

  “The prints were easy. I was making him IDs. He had three or four so he could come across when he liked. One time he told me he wanted a passport and full wallet spread. I told him I needed prints. Took ’em myself.”

  “And the motel?”

  “Like I said, he crossed over all the time. He’d go through the tunnel and the DEA would be out there sitting on the ranch thinking he was still inside. He liked to come up to see the Lakers, sit down on court level near that blonde actress who likes to get on TV. Anyway, he was up there and I told him I wanted to meet. He came.”

  “And you put him down and took his place… What about the old man, the laborer? What did he do?”

  “He was just in the wrong place. Zorrillo told me he was there when he came up through the floor on the last trip. He wasn’t supposed to be in that room. But I guess he couldn’t read the signs. Zorrillo
said he couldn’t take the chance he’d tell someone about the tunnel.”

  “Why’d you dump him in the alley? Why didn’t you just bury him out in Joshua Tree. Someplace he’d never be found.”

  “The desert would’ve been good but I didn’t dump him, Bosch. Don’t you see? They were controlling me. They brought him up here and dumped him there. Arpis did. That night I get a call from Zorrillo telling me to meet him at the Egg and I. He says park in the alley. I did and there was the body. I wasn’t going to move the fucking thing. I called it in. You see it was one more way for him to keep his hold on me. And I went along. Porter caught the case and I made a deal with him to take it slow.”

  Bosch didn’t say anything. He was trying to envision the sequence Moore had just described.

  “This is getting boring, man. You going to try to cuff me, take me in, be the hero?”

  “Why couldn’t you let it go?” Bosch asked.

  “What?”

  “This place. Your father. The whole thing. You should have let the past go.”

  “I was robbed of my life, man. He kicked us right out. My mother-How do you let go of a past like that? Fuck you, Bosch. You don’t know.”

  Bosch said nothing. But he knew he was allowing this to go on too long. Moore was taking control of the situation.

  “When I heard he was dead, it did something,” Moore said. “I don’t know. I decided I wanted this place and I went to see my brother. That was my mistake. Things started small but they never stopped. Soon I was running the show for him up there. I had to get out from under it. There was only one way.”

  “It was the wrong way.”

  “Don’t bother, Bosch. I know the song.”

  Bosch was sure Moore had told the story the way he believed it. But it was clear to Bosch he had fully embraced the devil. He had found out who he was.

  “Why me?” Bosch asked.

  “Why you what?”

  “Why did you leave the file for me? If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be here. You’d be in the clear.”

  “Bosch, you were my backup. You don’t see? I needed something in case the suicide play didn’t work. I figured you’d get that file and take it from there. I knew with just a little misdirection you would sound the alarm. Murder. Thing is, I never thought you’d get this far. I thought Irving and the rest of them would crush you because they wouldn’t want to know what it was all about. They’d just want the whole thing to die with me.”