The Black Ice (hb-2)

her affections. But Bosch knew he was a secondary diversion. Their liaisons were sporadic, usually weeks apart, and Harry was content to allow Teresa to initiate each one.
    He watched her bring her head down to blow onto a spoonful of soup and then sip it. He saw slices of carrot floating in the bowl. She had brown ringlets that fell to her shoulders. She held some of the tresses back with her hand as she blew on another spoonful and then sipped. Her skin was a deep natural brown and there was an exotic, elliptical shape to her face accentuated by high cheekbones. She wore red lipstick on full lips and there was just a whisper of fine white peach fuzz on her cheeks. He knew she was in her mid-thirties but he had never asked exactly how old. Lastly, he noticed her fingernails. Unpolished and clipped short, so as not to puncture the rubber gloves that were the tools of her trade.
    As he drank the heavy beer from its heavy stein, he wondered if this was the start of another liaison or whether she really had come to tell him of something significant in the autopsy results of Juan Doe #67.
    “So now I need a date for New Year’s Eve,” she said, looking up from the soup. “What are you staring at?”
    “Just watching you. You need a date, you got one. I read in the paper that Frank Morgan’s playing at the Catalina.”
    “Who’s he and what does he play?”
    “You’ll see. You’ll like him.”
    “It was a dumb question anyway. If he’s someone you like, then he plays the saxophone.”
    Harry smiled, more to himself than her. He was happy to know he had a date. Being alone on New Year’s Eve bothered him more than Christmas, Thanksgiving, any of the other days. New Year’s Eve was a night for jazz, and the saxophone could cut you in half if you were alone.
    She smiled and said, “Harry, you’re so easy when it comes to lonely women.”
    He thought of Sylvia Moore, remembering her sad smile.
    “So,” Teresa said, seeming to sense that he was drifting away. “I bet you want to know about the bugs inside Juan Doe #67.”
    “Finish your soup first.”
    “Nope, that’s okay. It doesn’t bother me. I always get hungry, in fact, after a long day chopping up bodies.”
    She smiled. She said things like that often, as if daring him not to like what she did for a living. He knew she was still hooked by her husband. It didn’t matter what she said. He understood.
    “Well, I hope you don’t miss the knives when they make you permanent chief. You’ll be cutting budgets then.”
    “No, I’d be a hands-on chief. I’d handle the specials. Like today. But after today, I don’t know if they’ll ever make me permanent.”
    Harry sensed that now he was the one who had shaken a bad feeling loose and sent her traveling with it. Now might be the right time.
    “You want to talk about it?”
    “No. I mean I do, but I can’t. I trust you, Harry, but I think I have to keep this close for the time being.”
    He nodded and let it go, but he intended to come back to it later and find out what had gone wrong on the Moore autopsy. He took his notebook out of his coat pocket and put it on the table.
    “Okay, then, tell me about Juan Doe #67.”
    She pushed the soup bowl to the side of the table and pulled a leather briefcase onto her lap. She pulled out a thin manila file and opened it in front of her.
    “Okay. This is a copy so you can keep it when I’m done explaining. I went over the notes and everything else Salazar had on this. I guess you know, cause of death was multiple blunt-force trauma to the head. Crushing blows to the frontal, parietal, sphenoid and supraorbital.”
    As she described these injuries she touched the top of her forehead, the back of her head, her left temple and rim of her left eye. She did not look up from the paperwork.
    “Any one of these was fatal. There were other defensive wounds which you can look at later. Um, he extracted wood splinters from two of the head injuries. Looks like you are talking about something like a baseball bat, but not as wide, I think. Tremendous crushing blows, so I think we are talking about something with some leverage. Not a stick. Bigger. A pick handle, shovel, something like-possibly a pool cue. But most likely something unfinished. Like I said, Sally pulled splinters out of the wounds. I’m not sure a pool cue with a sanded and lacquered finish would leave splinters.”
    She studied the notes a moment.
    “The other thing-I don’t know if Porter told