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 doughnuts 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.”