Michael Connelly (83 page)

As he opened the door of the dirty Caprice he heard singing from the park across the street. On a picnic bench five Mexican
men sat drinking Budweisers. A sixth man, wearing a black cowboy shirt with white embroidery and a straw Stetson, stood facing
them, playing a guitar and singing in Spanish. The song was sung slowly and Harry had no trouble translating.

I don’t know how to love you

I don’t even know how to embrace you

Because what never leaves me

Is this pain that hurts me so

The singer’s plaintive voice carried strongly across the park and Bosch thought the song was beautiful. He leaned against
his car and smoked until the singer was done.

The kisses that you gave me my love

Are the ones that are killing me

But my tears are now drying

With my pistol and my heart

And here as always I spend my life

With the pistol and the heart

At the song’s end, the men at the picnic table gave the singer a cheer and a toast.

Inside the glass door marked Police was a sour-smelling room no larger than the back of a pickup truck. On the left was a
Coke machine, straight ahead was a door with an electronic bolt, and on the right was a thick glass window with a slide tray
beneath it. A uniformed officer sat behind the glass. Behind him, a woman sat at a radio-dispatch console. On the other side
of the console was a wall of square-foot-sized lockers.

“You can’t smoke in there, sir,” the uniform said.

He wore mirrored sunglasses and was overweight. The plate over his breast pocket said his name was Gruber. Bosch stepped back
to the door and flicked the butt out into the parking lot.

“You know, it’s a hundred-dollar fine for littering in Calexico, sir,” Gruber said.

Harry held up his open badge and I.D. wallet.

“You can bill me,” he said. “I need to check a gun.”

Gruber smiled curtly, revealing his receding, purplish gums.

“I chew tobacco myself. Then you don’t have that problem.”

“I can tell.”

Gruber frowned and had to think about that a moment before saying, “Well, let’s have it. Man says he wants to check a gun
has to turn the gun in to be checked.”

He turned back to the dispatcher to see if she thought that he now had the upper hand. She showed no response. Bosch noticed
the strain Gruber’s gut was putting on the buttons of his uniform. He pulled the forty-four out of his holster and put it
in the slide tray.

“Foe-dee foe,” Gruber announced and he lifted the gun out and examined it. “You want to keep it in the holster?”

Bosch hadn’t thought about that. He needed the holster. Otherwise he’d have to jam the Smith in his waistband and he’d probably
lose it if he ended up having to do any running.

“Nah,” he said. “Just checking the gun.”

Gruber winked and took it over to the lockers, opened one up and put the gun inside. After he closed it, he locked it, took
the key out and came back to the window.

“Let me see the I.D. again. I have to write up a receipt.”

Bosch dropped his badge wallet into the tray and watched as Gruber slowly wrote out a receipt in duplicate. It seemed that
the officer had to look from the I.D. card to what he was writing every two letters.

“How’d you get a name like that?”

“You can just write Harry for short.”

“It’s no problem. I can write it. Just don’t ask me to say it. Looks like it rhymes with anonymous.”

He finished and put the receipts into the tray and told Harry to sign them both. Harry used his own pen.

“Lookee there, a lefty signing for a right-handed gun,” Gruber said. “Somethin’ you don’t see ’round here too often.”

He winked at Bosch again. Bosch just looked at him.

“Just talking is all,” Gruber said.

Harry dropped one of the receipts into the tray and Gruber exchanged it for the locker key. It was numbered.

“Don’t lose it now,” Gruber said.

As he walked back to the Caprice he saw that the men were still at the picnic table in the park but there was no more singing.
He got into the Caprice and put the locker key in the ashtray. He never used it for smoking. He noticed an old man with white
hair unlocking the door below the historical society sign. Bosch backed out and headed over to the De Anza.

It was a three-story, Spanish-style building with a satellite dish on the roof. Bosch parked in the brick drive up in front.
His plan was to check in, drop his bags in his room, wash his face and then make the border crossing into Mexicali. The man
behind the front desk wore a white shirt and brown bow tie to match his brown vest. He could not have been much older than
twenty. A plastic tag on the vest identified him as Miguel, assistant front desk manager.

Bosch said he wanted a room, filled out a registration card and handed it back. Miguel said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Bosch, we have
messages for you.”

He turned to a basket file and pulled out three pink message forms. Two were from Pounds, one from Irving. Bosch looked at
the times and noticed all three calls had come in during the last two hours. First Pounds, then Irving, then Pounds again.

“Wait a minute,” he said to Miguel. “Is there a phone?”

“Around the corner, sir, to your right.”

Bosch stood there with the phone in his hand wondering what to do. Something was up, or both of them wouldn’t have tried to
reach him. Something had made one or both of them call his house and they heard the taped message. What could have happened?
Using his PacBell card he called the Hollywood homicide table, hoping someone was in and that he might learn what was going
on. Jerry Edgar answered the call on the first ring.

“Jed, what’s up? I’ve got phone calls from the weight coming out my ass.”

There was a long silence. Too long.

“Jed?”

“Harry, where you at?”

“I’m down south, man.”

“Where down south?”

“What is it, Jed?”

“Wherever you’re at, Pounds is trying to recall you. He said if anybody talks to you, t’tell you to get your ass back here.
He said —”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s Porter, man. They found him this morning up at Sunshine Canyon. Somebody wrapped a wire ‘round his neck so tight that
it was the size of a watchband.”

“Jesus.” Bosch pulled out his cigarettes. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“What was he doing up there? Sunshine, that’s the landfill up in Foothill Division, right?”

“Shit, Harry, he was dumped there.”

Of course. Bosch should have realized that. Of course. He wasn’t thinking right.

“Right. Right. What happened?”

“What happened was that they found his body out there this morning. A rag picker come across it. He was covered in garbage
and shit. But RHD traced some of the stuff. They got receipts from some restaurants. They got the name of the hauler the restaurants
use and they’ve got it traced to a particular truck and a particular route. It’s a downtown run. Was made yesterday morning.
Hollywood’s working it with them. I’m fixing to go start canvassing on the route. We’ll find the Dumpster he came from and
go from there.”

Bosch thought of the Dumpster behind Poe’s. Porter hadn’t run out on him. He had probably been garroted and dragged out while
Bosch was having his say with the bartender. Then he remembered the man with the tattooed tears. How had he missed it? He
had probably stood ten feet from Porter’s killer.

“I didn’t go out to the scene but I hear he’d been worked over before they did him,” Edgar said. “His face was busted up.
Nose broke, stuff like that. A lot of blood, I hear. Man, what a pitiful way to go.”

It wouldn’t be long before they came into Poe’s with photos of Porter. The bartender would remember the face and would gladly
describe Bosch as the man who had come in, said he was a cop, and attacked Porter. Bosch wondered if he should tell Edgar
now and save a lot of legwork. A survival instinct flared inside him and he decided to say nothing about Poe’s.

“Why do Pounds and Irving want me?”

“Don’t know. All I know is first Moore gets it, then Porter. Think maybe they’re closing ranks or something. I think they
want everybody in where it’s nice and safe. Word going ‘round here is that those two cases are one. Word is those boys had
some kinda deal going. Irving’s already doubled them up. He’s running a joint op on both of them. Moore and Porter.”

Bosch didn’t say anything. He was trying to think. This put a new spin on everything.

“Listen to me, Jed. You haven’t heard from me. We didn’t talk. Understand?”

Edgar hesitated before saying, “You sure you want to play it that way?”

“Yeah. For now. I’ll be talking to you.”

“Watch your back.”

Watch out for the black ice, Bosch thought as he hung up and stood there for a minute, leaning against the wall. Porter. How
had this happened? He instinctively moved his arm against his hip but felt no reassurance. The holster was empty.

He had a choice now: go forward to Mexicali or go back to L.A. He knew if he went back it would mean the end of his involvement
in the case. Irving would cut him out like a bad spot on a banana.

Therefore, he realized, he actually had no choice. He had to go on. Bosch pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and
went back to the front desk. He slid the bill across to Miguel.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’d like to cancel my room, Miguel.”

“No problem. There is no charge. You never got the room.”

“No, that’s for you, Miguel. I have a slight problem. I don’t want anybody to know I was here. Understand?”

Miguel was young but he was wise. He told Bosch his request was no problem. He pulled the bill off the counter and tucked
it into a pocket inside his vest. Harry then slid the phone messages across.

“If they call again, I never showed up to get these, right?”

“That’s right, sir.”

In a few minutes he was in line for the crossing at the border. He noticed how the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol building
where incoming traffic was handled dwarfed its Mexican counterpart. The message was clear; leaving this country was not a
difficulty; coming in, though, was another matter entirely. When it was Bosch’s turn at the gate he held his badge wallet
open and out the window. When the Mexican officer took it, Harry then handed him the Calexico P.D. receipt.

“Your business?” the officer asked. He wore a faded uniform that had been Army green once. His hat was sweat-stained along
the band.

“Official. I have a meeting at the Plaza Justicia.”

“Ah. You know the way?”

Bosch held up one of the maps from the seat and nodded. The officer then looked at the pink receipt.

“You are unarmed?” he said as he read the paper. “You leave your forty-four behind, huh?”

“That’s what it says.”

The officer smiled and Bosch thought he could see disbelief in his eyes. The officer nodded and waved his car on. The Caprice
immediately became engulfed in a torrent of automobiles that were moving on a wide avenue with no painted lines denoting lanes.
At times there were six rows of moving vehicles and sometimes there were four or five. The cars made the transitions smoothly.
Harry heard no horns and the traffic flowed quickly. He had gone nearly a mile before a red light halted traffic and he was
able to consult his maps for the first time.

He determined he was on Calzado Lopez Mateos, which eventually led to the justice center in the southern part of the city.
The light changed and the traffic began moving again. Bosch relaxed a little and looked around as he drove, careful to keep
an eye on the changing lane configuration. The boulevard was lined with old shops and industrial businesses. Their pastel-painted
facades had been darkened by exhaust fumes from the passing river of metal and it was all quite depressing to Bosch. Several
large Chevrolet school buses with multicolor paint jobs moved on the road but they weren’t enough to bring much cheer to the
scene. The boulevard curved hard to the south and then rounded a circular intersection with a monument at its center, a golden
man upon a rearing stallion. He noticed several men, many wearing straw cowboy hats, standing in the circle or leaning against
the base of the monument. They stared into the sea of traffic. Day laborers waiting for work. Bosch checked the map and saw
that the spot was called Benito Juarez Circle.

In another minute Bosch came upon a complex of three large buildings with groupings of antennas and satellite dishes on top
of each. A sign near the roadway announced
AYUNTAMIENTO DE MEXICALI
.

He pulled into a parking lot. There were no parking meters or attendant’s booth. He found a spot and parked. While he sat
in the car, studying the complex, he couldn’t help but feel as though he were running from something, or someone. The death
of Porter shook him. He had been right there. It made him wonder how he had escaped and why the killer had not tried to take
him as well. One obvious explanation was that the killer did not want to risk taking on two targets at once. But another explanation
was that the killer was simply following orders, a hired assassin instructed to take down Porter. Bosch had the feeling that
if that were so, the order had come from here in Mexicali.

Each of the three buildings in the complex fronted one side of a triangular plaza. They were of modern design with brown-and-pink
sandstone facades. All the windows on the third floor of one of the buildings were covered from the inside with newspaper.
To block the setting sun, Bosch assumed. It gave the building a shabby look. Above the main entranceway to this building chrome
letters said
POLICIA JUDICIAL DEL ESTADO DE BAJA CALIFORNIA
. He got out of the car with his Juan Doe #67 file, locked the car door, and headed that way.

Walking through the plaza, Bosch saw several dozen people and many vendors selling food and crafts, but mostly food. On the
front steps of the police building several young girls approached him with hands out, trying to sell him chewing gum or wristbands
made of colorful threads. He said no thanks. As he opened the door to the lobby a short woman balancing a tray on her shoulder
that contained six pies almost collided with him.