The Black Ice (hb-2)

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.
    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