Michael Connelly (77 page)

“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.

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?”

Corvo laughed and shot a peace sign at the bartender. He brought two more beers.

“Know something? I like you. Believe it or not. I did check you out but I do like what I know of you. But something tells
me you don’t have shit worth trading for.”

“You ever check out a place down there called EnviroBreed?”

Corvo looked down at the beer placed in front of him and seemed to be composing his thoughts. Bosch had to prompt him.

“Yes or no?”

“EnviroBreed is a plant down there. They make these sterile fruit flies to set loose around here. It’s a government contractor.
They have to breed the bugs down there ’cause —”

“I know all of that. How come you know?”

“The only reason is that I was involved in setting plans on our operation down there. We wanted a ground Observation Point
on the target’s ranch. We went into the industrial parks that border the ranch to look for candidates. EnviroBreed was obvious.
American-managed. It was a government contractor. We went to see if we could set up an OP, maybe on the roof or an office
or something. The ranch property starts just across the street.”

“But they said no.”

“No, actually, they said yes. We said no.”

“How come?”

“Radiation. Bugs — they got those damned flies buzzing all over the god-damn place. But most of all the view was obscured.
We went up on the roof and we could see the ranch all right but the barn and stables — the whole bull-breeding facility —
was in line between EnviroBreed and the main ranch facilities. We couldn’t use the place. We told the guy there, thanks but
no thanks.”

“What was your cover? Or did you just come out and say DEA?”

“Nah, we cooked something up. Said we were from the National Weather Service on a project tracking desert and mountain wind
systems. Some bull-shit like that. The guy bought it.”

“Right.”

Corvo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“So, how does EnviroBreed figure into it from this end?”

“My Juan Doe. He had those bugs you were talking about in his body. I think he was probably killed there.”

Corvo turned so he was looking directly at Bosch. Harry continued to watch him in the mirror behind the bar.

“Okay, Bosch, let’s say you’ve got my attention. Go ahead and spin the tale.”

Bosch said he believed that EnviroBreed, which he didn’t even know was across from Zorrillo’s ranch until Corvo told him,
was part of the black ice pipeline. He told Corvo the rest of his theory: that Fernal Gutierrez-Llosa was a day laborer who
either hired on as a mule and didn’t make the grade or had worked at the bug breeding plant and seen something he should not
have seen or done something he should not have done. Either way, he was beaten to death, his body put in one of the white
environment boxes and taken with a shipment of fruit flies to Los Angeles. His body was then dumped in Hollywood and reported
by Moore, who probably handled everything on this end.

“They had to get the body out of there because they couldn’t bring an investigation into the plant. There is something there.
At least, something that was worth killing an old man for.”

Corvo had his arm up on the bar and his face in the palm of his hand. He said, “What did he see?”

“I don’t know. I do know that EnviroBreed has a deal with the feds not to have their shipments across the border bothered
with. Opening those boxes could damage the goods.”

“Who have you told this to?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody? You have told no one about EnviroBreed?”

“I’ve made some inquiries. I haven’t told anyone the story I just told you.”

“Who have you made inquiries with? You called the SJP?”

“Yeah. They put out a letter to the consulate on the old man. That’s how I put it together. I still have to make a formal
ID of the body when I’m down there.”