The Black Ice (hb-2)

older; his black hair was streaked with gray and his face had a worn, impassive look. He had soulless eyes in a face of worn brown stone. Bosch thought of the man with three tear drops on his face. Arpis. What look did he have when he choked the life out of Porter, when he held the shotgun up to Moore’s face and pulled the trigger?
    “The bull was very brave and beautiful,” Aguila said. He had said little through the first three fights other than to pronounce the skills of the matadors as expert or sloppy, good or bad.
    “I guess Zorrillo would have been very proud,” Bosch said, “if he had been here.”
    It was true, Zorrillo had not come. Bosch had found himself checking the empty box Aguila had pointed out but it had remained empty. Now, with one fight to go, it seemed unlikely that the man who bred the bulls for this day’s fights would arrive.
    “Do you wish to leave, Harry?”
    “No. I want to watch.”
    “Good, then. This match will be the finest and most artful. Silvestri is Mexicali’s greatest matador. Another
cervesa?
”
    “Yeah. I’ll get this one. What do you-”
    “No. It is my duty, a small means of repaying.”
    “Whatever,” Bosch said.
    “Lock the door.”
    He did. Then he looked at his ticket, on which the names of the bullfighters were printed. Cristobal Silvestri. Aguila had said he was the most artful and bravest fighter he had ever seen. A cheer went up from the crowd as the bull, another huge black monster, charged into the ring to confront his killers. The toreros began moving about him with green and blue capes opening like flowers. Bosch was struck by the ritual and pageantry of the bullfights, even the sloppy ones. It was not a sport, he was sure of this. But it was something. A test. A test of skills and, yes, bravery, resolve. He believed that if he had the opportunity he would want to go often to this arena to be a witness.
    There was a knock on the door and Bosch got up to let Aguila in. But when he opened the door there were two men waiting. One he did not recognize. The other he did but it took him a few moments to place him. It was Grena, the captain of investigations. From what little he could see past their two figures, there was no sign of Aguila.
    “Senor Bosch, may we come in?”
    Bosch stepped back but only Grena entered. The other man turned his back as if to guard the doorway. Grena closed and locked it.
    “So we won’t be disturbed, yes?” he said as he scanned the room. He did this at length, as if it were the size of a basketball court and needed careful study in determining there was no one else present.
    “It is my custom to come for the last fight, Senor Bosch. Particularly, you see, when Silvestri is in the ring. A great champion. I hope you will enjoy this.”
    Bosch nodded and casually looked out into the ring. The bull was still lively and moving about the ring while the toreros sidestepped and waited for it to slow.
    “Carlos Aguila? He has gone?”
    “
Cervesa
. But you probably already know that, Captain. So why don’t you tell me what’s up?”
    “What is ‘up’? How do you mean?”
    “I mean what do you want, Captain. What are you doing here?”
    “Ah,
si,
you want to watch our little pageant and do not wish to be bothered by business. Get to the point, is the way it is said, I believe.”
    “Yeah, that works.”
    There was a cheer and both men looked out into the ring. Silvestri had entered and was stalking the bull. He wore a white-and-gold suit of lights and he walked in a regal manner, his back straight and his head canted downward, as he sternly studied his adversary. The bull was still game as it charged about the ring, whipping the blue and yellow banderillas stuck in its neck from side to side.
    Bosch pulled his attention back to Grena. The police captain was wearing a black jacket of soft leather, its right cuff barely covering his Rolex.
    “My point is I want to know what you are doing, Senor Bosch. You don’t come down here for bullfights. So why are you here? I am told identification of Senor Gutierrez-Llosa has been made. Why do you stay? Why do you bother Carlos Aguila with your time?”
    Bosch was not going to tell this man anything but he did not want to endanger Aguila. Bosch would be leaving eventually, but not Aguila.
    “I am leaving in the morning. My work is completed.”
    “Then you should leave tonight, eh? An early start?”
    “Maybe.”
    Grena nodded.
    “You see, I have had an inquiry from a