The Black Ice (hb-2)

he was a breeder or something.”
    She smiled and said, “Why don’t you ask me where they breed them.”
    “Where do they do it, Teresa?”
    “Well, the trick is to breed them where they are already a part of the natural insect population or environment and therefore not a problem in case some happen to slip out the door before getting their dose of radiation.
    “And, so, the USDA contracts with breeders in only two places; Hawaii and Mexico. In Hawaii there are three breeding contractors on Oahu. In Mexico there is a breeder down near Zihuatenejo and the largest of all five is located near-”
    “Mexicali.”
    “Harry! How did you know? Did you already know all of this and let me-”
    “It was just a guess. It fits with something else I’ve been working on.”
    She looked at him oddly and for a moment he was sorry he had spoiled her fun. He drained his beer mug and looked around for the squeamish waiter.

Chapter 10
    She drove him back to get his car near the Red Wind and then followed him out of downtown and up to his home in the hills. She lived in a condo in Hancock Park, which was closer, but she said she had been spending too much time there lately and wanted a chance to see or hear the coyote. He knew her real reason was that it would be easier for her to extricate herself from his place than to ask him to leave hers.
    Bosch didn’t mind, though. The truth was, he felt uncomfortable at her place. It reminded him too much of what L.A. was coming to. It was a fifth-floor loft with a view of downtown in a historic residence building called the Warfield. The exterior of the building was still as beautiful as the day in 1911 it was completed by George Allan Hancock. Beaux Arts architecture with a blue-gray terra-cotta facade. George hadn’t spared the oil money and from the street the Warfield, with its fleurs-de-lys and cartouches, showed it. But it was the interior-the current interior, that is-that Bosch found objectionable. The place had been bought a few years back by a Japanese firm and completely gutted, then retrofitted, renovated and revamped. The walls in each apartment were knocked down and each place was nothing but a long, sterile room with fake wood floors, stainless-steel counters and track lighting. Just a pretty shell, Bosch thought. He had a feeling George would’ve thought the same.
    At Harry’s house they talked while he lit the hibachi on the porch and put an orange roughy filet on the grill. He had bought it Christmas Eve and it was still fresh and large enough to split. Teresa told him the County Commission would probably informally decide before New Year’s on a permanent chief medical examiner. He wished her good luck but privately wasn’t sure he meant it. It was a political appointment and she would have to toe the line. Why get into that box? He changed the subject.
    “So, if this guy, this Juan Doe, was down in Mexicali-near where they make these fruit flies-how do you think his body got all the way up here?”
    “That’s not my department,” Teresa said.
    She was at the railing, staring out over the Valley. There were a million lights glinting in the crisp, cool air. She was wearing his jacket over her shoulders. Harry glazed the fish with a pineapple barbecue sauce and then turned it over.
    “It’s warm over here by the fire,” he said. He dawdled a bit over the filet and then said, “I think what it was is that maybe they didn’t want anybody checking around that USDA contractor’s business. You know? They didn’t want that body connected to that place. So they take the guy’s body far away.”
    “Yeah, but all the way to L.A.?”
    “Maybe they were… well, I don’t know. That is pretty far away.”
    They were both silent with their thoughts for a few moments. Bosch could hear and smell the pineapple sizzling as it dripped on the coals. He said, “How do you smuggle a dead body across the border?”
    “Oh, I think they’ve smuggled larger things than that across, don’t you?”
    He nodded.
    “Ever been down there, Harry, to Mexicali?”
    “Just to drive through on my way to Bahia San Felipe, where I went fishing last summer. I never stopped. You?”
    “Never.”
    “You know the name of the town just across the border? On our side?”
    “Uh uh.”
    “Calexico.”
    “You’re kidding? Is that where-”
    “Yup.”
    The fish was done. He forked it onto a plate, put the cover on the grill and they went inside. He served it with Spanish rice he