“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.
32
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 saidMEXITEC 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.