The Black Ice (hb-2)

steel casket.
    “So, you made it back,” a voice said from behind.
    Bosch turned to see Teresa Corazon walking up behind him.
    “Yeah, just got in.”
    “You could use a shave.”
    “And a few other things. How’s it going, Teresa?”
    “Never better.”
    “Good to hear. What happened this morning after we talked?”
    “About what you expected. We pulled DOJ prints on Moore and compared them to what Irving had given us. No match. Two different people. That isn’t Moore in the silver bullet over there.”
    Bosch nodded. Of course, by now he didn’t need her confirmation. He had his own. He thought of Moore’s faceless body lying on the bed.
    “What are you going to do with it?” he asked.
    “I’ve already done it.”
    “What?”
    “I had a little discussion with Assistant Chief Irving before the funeral mass. Wish you could have seen his face.”
    “But he didn’t stop the funeral.”
    “He’s playing the percentages, I guess. Chances are Moore, if he knows what’s good for him, won’t ever show up again. So he is hoping that all it costs him is a recommendation on the medical examiner’s office. He volunteered to do it. I didn’t even have to explain his position to him.”
    “I hope you enjoy the job, Teresa. You’re in the belly of the beast now.”
    “I will, Harry. And thanks for calling me this morning.”
    “Does he know how you came up with all of this? Did you tell him I called?”
    “No. But I’m not sure I had to.”
    She was right. Irving would know Bosch was in the middle of this somehow. He looked past Teresa to look at Sylvia again. She was sitting quietly. The chairs on either side of her empty. No one was going to come near her.
    “I’m going over to the group,” Teresa said. “I told Dick Ebart I would meet him here. He wants to set up a date to call for the commission’s full vote.”
    Bosch nodded. Ebart was a county commissioner of twenty-five years in office and closing in on seventy years old. He was her informal sponsor for the job.
    “Harry, I still want to keep things on just a professional basis. I appreciate what you did for me today. But I want to keep things at a distance, for a while at least.”
    He nodded and watched her walk toward the gathering, her footing unsteady in high heels on the cemetery turf. For a moment Bosch envisioned her in a carnal coupling with the aged commissioner whose photos in the newspaper were most notable because of his drooping, crepe-paper neck. He was repulsed by the image and by himself for imagining it. He blanked it out of his mind and watched Teresa mingling in the crowd, shaking hands and becoming the politician she would now have to be. He felt a sense of sadness for her.
    The service was a few minutes away and people were still arriving. In the crowd he picked up the gleaming head of Assistant Chief Irvin Irving. He was in full uniform, carrying his hat under his arm. He was standing with the chief of police and one of the mayor’s front men. The mayor was apparently late as usual. Irving then saw Bosch, broke away and started walking toward him. He seemed to be taking in the vista of the mountains as he walked. He didn’t look at Bosch until he was next to him under the oak tree.
    “Detective.”
    “Chief.”
    “When did you get in?”
    “Just now.”
    “Could use a shave.”
    “Yeah, I know.”
    “So what do we do? What do we do?”
    The way he said it was almost wistful and Bosch didn’t know whether Irving wanted an answer from him or not.
    “You know, Detective, yesterday when you did not come to my office as ordered, I opened a one-point-eighty-one on you.”
    “I figured you would, Chief. Am I suspended?”
    “No action taken at the moment. I’m a fair man. I wanted to speak with you first. You spoke with the acting chief medical examiner this morning?”
    Bosch wasn’t going to lie to him. He thought this time he held all of the high cards.
    “Yes. I wanted her to compare some fingerprints.”
    “What happened down there in Mexico to make you want to do that?”
    “Nothing I care to talk about, Chief. I’m sure it will all be on the news.”
    “I’m not talking about that ill-fated raid undertaken by the DEA. I am talking about Moore. Bosch, I need to know if I need to walk over there and stop this funeral.”
    Bosch watched a blue vein pop high on Irving’s shaven skull. It pulsed and then died.
    “I can’t help you there, Chief. It’s not my call. We’ve got company.”
    Irving