The Black Ice (hb-2)

sold the place. I heard, for more than a million. Maybe they’ll operate in the black for a few years.”
    “Who bought it?”
    “I don’t know. But they never moved in. They got a caretaker comes around. I saw lights on over there last week. But, nope, nobody’s ever moved in as far as I know. It must be an investment. In what I don’t know. We’re sitting out here in the middle of nowhere.”
    “One last question. Was there ever anybody else with Moore when he would watch the place?”
    “Always alone. That poor boy was always out there alone.”

    * * *

    On the way back into town Bosch thought about Moore’s lonely vigils outside the house of his father. He wondered if his longings were for the house and its memories or the father who had sent him away. Or both.
    Bosch’s mind touched his memory of his brief meeting with his own father. A sick old man on his death bed. Bosch had forgiven him for every second he had been robbed. He knew he had to or he would face the rest of his life wasting his pain on it.

Chapter 27
    The line of traffic to go back into Mexico was longer and slower than the day before. Bosch figured this was because of the bullfight, which drew people from the entire region. It was a Sunday evening tradition as popular here as Raiders football was in L.A.
    Bosch was two cars from the Mexican border officer when he realized he still had the Smith in its holster on his back. It was too late to do anything about it. When he got to the man, he simply said, “Bullfight,” and was waved on through.
    The sky was clear over Mexicali and the air cool. It looked like it would be perfect weather. Harry felt the tingle of anticipation in his throat. It was for two things: seeing the ritual of the fight and maybe seeing Zorrillo, the man whose name and lore had surrounded his last three days so thoroughly that Bosch found himself buying into his myth. He just wanted to see the pope in his own element. With his bulls. With his people.
    Bosch took a pair of surveillance binoculars out of the glove compartment after parking at the Justice Plaza. The arena was only three blocks away and he figured they’d walk. After showing ID to the front-desk officer and being approved to go back, he found Aguila sitting behind the lone desk in the investigators’ squadroom. He had several handwritten reports in front of him.
    “Did you get the tickets?”
    “Yes, I have them. We have a box on the sun side. This will not be a problem because the boxes get little sun.”
    “Is it close to the pope?”
    “Almost directly across-if he is there today.”
    “Yeah, if. We’ll see. You done?”
    “Yes, I have completed the reports on the Fernal Gutierrez-Llosa investigation. Until a suspect is charged.”
    “Which will probably never happen down here.”
    “This is correct… I believe we should go now.”
    Bosch held up the binoculars.
    “I’m ready.”
    “You will be so close you will not need those.”
    “These aren’t for looking at bulls.”
    As they walked toward the arena they moved into a steady stream of people heading the same way. Many of them carried little square pillows on which they would sit in the arena. They passed several young children holding armfuls of pillows and selling them for a dollar each.
    After entering the gate, Bosch and Aguila descended a set of concrete stairs to an underground level where Aguila presented their box tickets to an usher. They were then led through a catacomblike passageway that curved as it followed the circumference of the ring. There were small wooden doors marked with numbers on their left.
    The usher opened a door with the number seven on it and they went into a room no larger than a jail cell. Its floor, walls and ceiling were all unpainted concrete. The vaulted ceiling sloped downward from the back to a six-foot-wide opening that looked out into the ring. They were directly on the outer ring where matadors, toreros and other players in the fights stood and waited. Bosch could smell the dirt ring, its horse and bull odors, its blood. There were six steel chairs folded and leaning against the rear wall. They opened two and sat down after Aguila thanked the usher and closed and locked the door.
    “This is like a pillbox,” Bosch said as he looked through the window slot into the boxes across the ring. He did not see Zorrillo.
    “What is a pillbox?”
    “Never mind,” Bosch said, realizing he had never been in one, either. “It’s like a jail