The Black Ice (hb-2)

situation.
    “When I heard he was dead, it did something,” Moore said. “I don’t know. I decided I wanted this place and I went to see my brother. That was my mistake. Things started small but they never stopped. Soon I was running the show for him up there. I had to get out from under it. There was only one way.”
    “It was the wrong way.”
    “Don’t bother, Bosch. I know the song.”
    Bosch was sure Moore had told the story the way he believed it. But it was clear to Bosch he had fully embraced the devil. He had found out who he was.
    “Why me?” Bosch asked.
    “Why you what?”
    “Why did you leave the file for me? If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be here. You’d be in the clear.”
    “Bosch, you were my backup. You don’t see? I needed something in case the suicide play didn’t work. I figured you’d get that file and take it from there. I knew with just a little misdirection you would sound the alarm. Murder. Thing is, I never thought you’d get this far. I thought Irving and the rest of them would crush you because they wouldn’t want to know what it was all about. They’d just want the whole thing to die with me.”
    “And Porter.”
    “Yeah, well, Porter was weak. He’s probably better off now, anyway.”
    “And me? Would I be better off if Arpis had hit me with the bullet in the hotel room?”
    “Bosch, you were getting too close. Had to take the shot.”
    Harry had nothing more to say or ask. Moore seemed to sense that they were at a final point. He tried one more time.
    “Bosch, in that bag I have account numbers. They’re yours.”
    “Not interested, Moore. We’re going back.”
    Moore laughed at that notion.
    “Do you really think anybody up there gives a rat’s ass about all of this?”
    Bosch said nothing.
    “In the department?” Moore said. “No fucking way they care. They don’t want to know about something like this. Bad for business, man. But, see, you-you’re not in the department, Bosch. You’re in it but not of it. See what I’m saying? There’s the problem. There’s-you take me back, man, and they’re gonna look at you as being just as bad as me. Because you’ll be pulling this wagon full of shit behind you.
    “I think you’re the only one who cares about it, Bosch. I really think you are. So just take the money and go.”
    “What about your wife? You think she cares?”
    That stopped him, for a few moments, at least.
    “Sylvia,” he said. “I don’t know. I lost her a long time ago. I don’t know if she cares about this or not. I don’t care anymore myself.”
    Bosch watched him, looking for the truth.
    “Water under the bridge,” Moore said. “So take the money. I can get more to you later.”
    “I can’t take the money. I think you know that.”
    “Yeah, I guess I know that. But I think you know I can’t go back with you, either. So where’s that leave us?”
    Bosch shifted his weight on to his left side, the butt of the shotgun against his hip. There was a long moment of silence during which he thought about himself and his own motives. Why hadn’t he told Moore to take the gun out of his pants and drop it?
    In a smooth, quick motion, Moore reached across his body with his right hand and pulled the gun out of his waistband. He was bringing the barrel around toward Bosch when Harry’s finger closed over the shotgun’s triggers. The double-barrel blast was deafening in the room. Moore took the brunt of it in the face. Through the smoke Bosch saw his body jerk backward into the air. His hands flew up toward the ceiling and he landed on the bed. His handgun fired but it was a stray shot, shattering one of the panes of the arched windows. The gun dropped onto the floor.
    Pieces of blackened wadding from the shells floated down and landed in the blood of the faceless man. There was a heavy smell of burned gunpowder on the air and Bosch felt a slight mist on his face that he also knew by smell was blood.
    He stood still for more than a minute, then he looked over and saw himself in the mirror. He quickly looked away.
    He walked over to the bed and unzipped the duffel bag. There were stacks and stacks of money inside it, most of it in one-hundred-dollar bills. There was also a wallet and passport. He opened them and found they identified Moore as Henry Maze, age forty, of Pasadena. There were two loose photos held in the passport.
    The first was a Polaroid that he guessed had come from the white bag. It was a photo of Moore and