Michael Connelly (98 page)

“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.

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 said
MEXITEC
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, his
guardia
. 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.”