The Black Ice (hb-2)

agreement.
    “Did you speak to him down there, Bosch?”
    Harry knew he meant Moore and he knew he couldn’t answer.
    “What did you do down there?”
    After a few moments of silence Irving turned and walked as upright as a Nazi back to the rows of chairs holding the VIPs and top brass of the department. He took a seat his adjutant had been saving in the row behind Sylvia Moore. He never looked back at Bosch once.

Chapter 34
    Through the entire service Bosch had watched her from his position next to the oak tree. Sylvia Moore rarely raised her head, even to watch the line of cadets fire blanks into the sky or when the air squad flew over, the helicopters arranged in the missing-man formation. One time he thought she glanced over at him, or at least in his direction, but he couldn’t be sure. He thought of her as being stoic. And he thought of her as being beautiful.
    When it was over and the casket was in the hole and the people were moving away, she stayed seated and Bosch saw her wave away an offer from Irving to be escorted back to the limousine. The assistant chief sauntered off, smoothing his collar against his neck. Finally, when the area around the burial site was clear, she stood up, glanced once down into the hole, and then started walking toward Bosch. Her steps were punctuated by the slamming of car doors all across the cemetery. She took the sunglasses off as she came.
    “You took my advice,” she said.
    This immediately confused him. He looked down at his clothes and then back at her. What advice? She read him and answered.
    “The black ice, remember? You have to be careful. You’re here, so I assume you were.”
    “Yes, I was careful.”
    He saw that her eyes were very clear and she seemed even stronger than the last time they had encountered each other. They were eyes that would not forget a kindness. Or a slight.
    “I know there is more than what they have told me. Maybe you will tell me sometime?”
    He nodded and she nodded. There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other that was neither long or short. It seemed to Bosch to be a perfect moment. The wind gusted and broke the spell. Some of her hair broke loose from the barrette and she pushed it back with her hand.
    “I would like that,” she said.
    “Whenever you want,” he said. “Maybe you’ll tell me a few things, too.”
    “Such as?”
    “That picture that was missing from the picture frame. You knew what it was, but you didn’t tell me.”
    She smiled as if to say he had focused his attention on something unnecessary and trivial.
    “It was just a picture of him and his friend from the barrio. There were other pictures in the bag.”
    “It was important but you didn’t say anything.”
    She looked down at the grass.
    “I just didn’t want to talk or think about it anymore.”
    “But you did, didn’t you?”
    “Of course. That’s what happens. The things you don’t want to know or remember or think about come back to haunt you.”
    They were quiet for a moment.
    “You know, don’t you?” he finally said.
    “That that wasn’t my husband buried there? I had an idea, yes. I knew there was more than what people were telling me. Not you, especially. The others.”
    He nodded and the silence grew long but not uncomfortable. She turned slightly and looked over at the driver standing next to the limo, waiting. There was nobody left in the cemetery.
    “There is something I hope you will tell me,” she said. “Either now or sometime. If you can, I mean… Um, is he… is there a chance he will be back?”
    Bosch looked at her and slowly shook his head. He studied her eyes for reaction. Sadness or fear, even complicity. There was none. She looked down at her gloved hands, which grasped each other in front of her dress.
    “My driver…,” she said, not finishing the thought.
    She tried a polite smile and for the hundredth time he asked himself what had been wrong with Calexico Moore. She took a step forward and touched her hand to his cheek. It felt warm, even through the silk glove, and he could smell perfume on her wrist. Something very light. Not really a smell. A scent.
    “I guess I should go,” she said.
    He nodded and she backed away.
    “Thank you,” she said.
    He nodded. He didn’t know what he was being thanked for but all he could do was nod.
    “Will you call? Maybe we could… I don’t know. I-”
    “I will call.”
    Now she nodded and turned to walk back to the black limousine. He