Harry Bosch 02 - The Black Ice

by Michael Connelly

"Those aren't things a cop on the pad does. So what I'm saying is that if he crossed, then I think he was trying to cross back and that's why somebody did him."

  He stopped then and Bosch didn't interrupt the silence. They both knew that once you cross, you can never come back. Bosch could hear footsteps coming toward the bars.

  Rickard said, "They better show me something down there at Parker, not let this thing go. Or I'll show them something."

  Bosch wanted to say something but the deputy was at the door with Tyge. He looked like he had aged ten years in the last ten hours. Now he had a distance in his eyes that reminded Bosch of men he had seen and known in Vietnam. There was also a bruise high on his left cheek bone.

  The door was slid open by means of unseen electronics and the boy/man walked to the bench after the deputy pointed the way. He sat down tentatively and seemed purposely to keep his eyes away from Rickard.

  "How's it hanging, Kerwin?" Rickard asked.

  Now the boy looked at Rickard and his eyes made Bosch's stomach knot. He remembered the first night he had spent in McLaren Youth Hall as a boy. The pure fear and screaming loneliness. And there he had been surrounded by kids, most of them nonviolent. This boy had been surrounded for the last twelve hours by wild animals. Bosch felt ashamed to be part of this but said nothing. It was Rickard's show.

  "Look, my man, I know you're probably having a not-so-fun time in there. That's why we came by t'see if you changed your mind any about what we discussed last night."

  Rickard was speaking very low so the monster at the end would not hear.

  When the boy said nothing, gave no indication that he even heard, Rickard pressed on.

  "Kerwin, you want out of here? Here's your man. Mr. Harry Bosch. He'll let me drop the whole thing, even though it was a righteous bust, if you talk to us about this cat Dance. Here, look-it here."

  Rickard unfolded a piece of white paper from his shirt pocket. It was a standard case-filing form from the district attorney's office.

  "Man, I have forty-eight hours to file a case on you. 'Cause of the weekend, that's puts it over 'til Monday. This here is the paperwork about you. I haven't done nothing with it 'cause I wanted to check with you one more time to see if you wanted to help yourself out. If you don't, then I'll go file it and this will be your home for the next—probably you're looking at a year with good time."

  Rickard waited and nothing happened.

  "A year. What do you think you'll be like after a year back in there, Kerwin?"

  The boy looked down for a moment and then the tears rolled down his cheeks.

  "Go to hell," he managed to say in a strangled voice. Bosch already was there. He would remember this one for a long time. He realized that he was clenching his teeth and tried to relax his jaw. He couldn't.

  Rickard leaned forward to say something to the boy but Bosch put his hand on his shoulder to stop him.

  "Fuck it," Bosch said. "Cut him loose."

  "What?"

  "We're dropping it."

  "The fuck you talking about?"

  The boy looked over at Bosch, an expression of skepticism on his face. But it was no act with Bosch. He felt sick at what they had done.

  "Look," Rickard said. "We got two ounces of PCP off this asshole. He's mine. If he don't want to help out, then too fucking bad. He goes back into the zoo."

  "No, he doesn't." And then Bosch leaned close to Rickard so the deputy behind the boy could not hear. "No, he doesn't, Rickard. We're taking him out. Now do it, or I'm going to fuck you up."

  "What did you say?"

  "I'll go to the fifth floor with it. This boy should've never been up here with that charge. That's on you, Rickard. I'll make the complaint. Your connection in here will get burned too. You want that? Just because you couldn't get this kid to talk?"

  "You think IAD's going to give a shit about a little punk pusher?"

  "No. But they'll give a shit about bagging you. They'll love you. You'll come out walking slower than this boy."

  Harry leaned back away from him. Nobody said anything for a few moments and Bosch could see Rickard thinking it through, trying to decide if it was a bluff.

  "A guy like you, going to IAD. I can't see it."

  "That's the risk you take."

  Rickard looked down at the paper in his hand and then slowly crumpled it.

  "Okay, my man, but you better put me on the list."

  "What list?"

  "The one you got of people you have to watch your back with."

  Bosch stood up and so did Rickard.

  "We're cutting him loose," Rickard said to the guard.

  Bosch pointed to the boy and said, "I want an escort with this man until he is out of there, got it?"

  The deputy nodded. The boy said nothing.

  It took an hour to get him out. After Rickard signed the appropriate papers and they got their badges back, they waited wordlessly by the glass window on the seventh floor.

  Bosch was disgusted with himself. He had lost sight of the art. Solving cases was simply getting people to talk to you. Not forcing them to talk. He had forgotten that this time.

  "You can go if you want," he said to Rickard.

  "As soon as he walks out that door and you've got him, I'm gone. Want nothing to do with him. But I want to see him leave with you, Bosch. In case any of this comes back on me."

  "Yeah, that's smart."

  "Yes, it is."

  "But you still've got a lot to learn, Rickard. Everything isn't black and white. Not everybody has to be ground into the sidewalk. You take a kid like that and—"

  "Spare me the lesson, Bosch. I might have a lot to learn but it won't be from you. You're a class A fuckup. Think the only thing you could teach me is how to climb down the ladder. No thanks."

  "Sure," Bosch said and walked to the other side of the room where there was a bench. He sat down and fifteen minutes later the boy came out. He walked between Rickard and Bosch to the elevator. Outside the Hall of Justice, Rickard headed off to his car after simply saying to Bosch, "Fuck you."

  "Right," Bosch said.

  He stood on the sidewalk, lit a cigarette and offered one to the boy. He declined.

  "I'm not telling you anything," the boy said.

  "I know. That's cool. You want me to take you anywhere? A real doctor? A lift back to Hollywood?"

  "Hollywood's fine."

  They walked to Bosch's car, which was parked two blocks away at Parker Center and he took Third Street toward Hollywood. They were halfway there before either one spoke.

  "You have a place? Where do you want me to drop you?"

  "Anywhere."

  "No place?"

  "No."

  "Family?"

  "Nope."

  "What will you do?"

  "Whatever."

  Harry turned north on Western. They were silent for another fifteen minutes or so, until Bosch pulled to a stop in front of the Hideaway.

  "What's this?"

  "Sit tight. I'll only be a minute."

  Inside the office, the manager tried to rent Bosch room seven but Harry flipped him his badge and told him try again. The manager, who was still wearing a dingy sleeveless T-shirt, gave him the key to room thirteen. He went back to the car and got in and gave the boy the key. He also took out his wallet.

  "You've got a room in there for a week," Bosch said. "For what it's worth, which you probably don't think is much, my advice is that you think about things and then get as far away from this town as you can. There are better places to live than this."

  The boy looked at the key in his hand. Bosch then handed him all the money he had, which was only $43.

  "What, you give me a room and money and you think I'm going to talk to you? I've seen TV, man. The whole thing was a hoax, you and that guy."

  "Don't misunderstand, kid. I'm doing this because it's something that I need to do. It doesn't mean I think what you do for a living is okay. I don't. If I ever see you out on the street again I'm going
to come down on you. It's a pretty fucking desperate chance but it's a chance just the same. Do with it what you want. You can go. It's no hoax."

  The boy opened the car door and got out. He looked back in at Bosch.

  "Then why're you doing it?"

  "I don't know. I guess 'cause you told him to go to hell. I should've said that and I didn't. I gotta go."

  The boy looked at him a moment before speaking.

  "You know, man, Dance's gone. I don't know why you're all worried about him."

  "Look, kid, I didn't do—"

  "I know."

  Harry just looked at him.

  "He left, man. Left town. He said our source split and so he went down to see if he could get the thing going again. You know, he wants to step up and be the source, now."

  "Down?"

  "He said Mexico, but that's all I know. He's gone. That's why I was doing sherms."

  The boy closed the door and disappeared into the courtyard of the motel. Bosch sat there thinking and Rickard's question came back to him. Where would the boy be in a year? Then he thought of himself staying in rundown motels so many years ago. Bosch had made it through. Had survived. There was always the chance. He restarted the car and pulled out.

  Sixteen

  TALKING TO THE KID SEALED IT. BOSCH KNEW he was going to Mexico. All the spokes on the wheel pointed to the hub. The hub was Mexicali. But, then he'd known that all along.

  He drove to the station on Wilcox, trying to determine a strategy. He knew he would have to contact Aguila, the State Judicial Police officer who had sent the letter identifying Juan Doe #67 to the consulate. He would also have to contact the DEA, which had provided the intelligence report to Moore. He would have to get the trip cleared by Pounds, but he knew that might end it right there. He would have to work around that.

  In the bureau, the homicide table was empty. It was after four on a Friday, and a holiday week as well. With no new cases; the detectives would clear out as soon as possible to go home to families and lives outside the cop-shop. Harry could see Pounds in his glass booth; his head was down and he was writing on a piece of paper, using his ruler to keep his sentences on a straight line.

  Bosch sat down and checked through a pile of pink message slips at his spot. Nothing needing an immediate return. There were two from Bremmer at the Times but he had left the name Jon Marcus—a code they had once worked out so it would not become known that the reporter was calling for Bosch. There were a couple from DA's who were prosecuting cases Harry had worked and needed information or the location of evidence. There was a message that Teresa had called but he looked at the time on the note and saw that he had seen her since then. He guessed that she had called to tell him she wasn't talking to him.

  There was no message from Porter and no message from Sylvia Moore. He took out the copy of the inquiry from Mexicali that the missing-persons detective, Capetillo, had given him and dialed the number Carlos Aguila had provided. The number was a general exchange for the SJP office. His Spanish was unconfident despite his recent refresher, and it took Bosch five minutes of explanations before he was connected to the investigations unit and asked once again for Aguila. He didn't get him. Instead, he got a captain who spoke English and explained that Aguila was not in the office but would return later and would also be working Saturday. Bosch knew that the cops in Mexico worked six-day weeks.

  "Can I be of help?" the captain asked.

  Bosch explained that he was investigating a homicide and was answering the inquiry Aguila had sent to the consulate in Los Angeles. The description was similar to the body he had. The captain explained that he was familiar with the case, that he had taken the report before handing the case to Aguila. Bosch asked whether there were fingerprints available to confirm the identification but the captain said there were none. Chalk one up for Capetillo, Bosch thought.

  "Perhaps you have a photograph from your morgue of this man that you could send to us," the captain said. "We could make identification from the family of Mr. Gutierrez-Llosa."

  "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 donuts 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."