The Black Ice (hb-2)

put his whole weight on the door. It slowly moved open as the blockage gave way. He squeezed through and saw a Dumpster had been shoved against the door. He was standing in an alley behind Poe’s and the morning light, flowing down the alley from the east, was blinding.
    There was an abandoned Toyota, its wheels, hood and one door gone, sitting dead in the alley. There were more Dumpsters and the wind was blowing trash around in a swirl. And there was no sign of Porter.

Chapter 13
    Bosch sat at the counter at the Original Pantry drinking coffee, picking at a plate of eggs and bacon, and waiting for a second wind to come. He hadn’t bothered with trying to follow Porter. He knew that there would be no chance. Knowing Bosch wanted him, even a broken-down cop like Porter would know enough to stay away from the likely places Harry would look. He would stay in the wind.
    Harry had his notebook out and opened to the chronological chart he had constructed the day before. But he could not concentrate on it. He was too depressed. Depressed that Porter had run from him, that he hadn’t trusted him. Depressed that it seemed clear that Moore’s death was connected to the darkness that was out there at the outer edge of every cop’s vision. Moore had crossed over. And it had killed him.
    I found out who I was
.
    The note bothered him, too. If Moore wasn’t a suicide, where did it come from? It made him think about what Sylvia Moore had said about the past, about how her husband had been snared in a trap he had set for himself. He then thought of calling her to tell her what he had learned but discarded the idea for the time being. He did not have the answers to questions she would surely ask. Why was Calexico Moore murdered? Who did it?
    It was just after eight o’clock. Bosch left money on the counter and walked out. Outside two homeless men shook cups in front of him and he acted like they weren’t even there. He drove over to Parker Center and got into the lot early enough to get a parking space. He first checked the Robbery-Homicide Division offices on the third floor but Sheehan wasn’t in yet. Next he went up to the fourth to Fugitives, to pick up where Porter would have if he hadn’t made his deal with Moore. Fugitives also handled missing-persons reports and Bosch always thought there was something symbiotic about that. Most missing persons were fugitives from something, some part of their lives.
    A missing-persons detective named Capetillo asked Bosch what he needed and Harry asked to see the male Latin missings for the last ten days. Capetillo led him to his desk and told him to have a seat while he went to the files. Harry looked around and his eyes fell on a framed photo of the portly detective posed with a woman and two young girls. A family man. Taped to the wall above the desk was a bullfight poster advertising the lineup for a fight two years earlier at Tijuana’s Bullring by the Sea. The names of the six matadors were listed down the right side. The entire left side of the poster was a reproduction of a painting of a matador turning with a charging bull, leading the horns away with the flowing red cape. The caption inscribed below the painting said “El Arte de la Muleta.”
    “The classic veronica.”
    Bosch turned. It was Capetillo and he was holding a thin file in one hand.
    “Excuse me?” Bosch asked.
    “The veronica. Do you know anything about the
corrida de toros?
The bullfights?”
    “Never been.”
    “Magnificent. I go at least four times a year. Nothing compares to it. Football, basketball, nothing. The veronica is that move. He slyly leads the horns away. In Mexico the bullfight is called the brave festival, you know.”
    Bosch looked at the file in the detective’s hand. Capetillo opened it and handed Bosch a thin stack of papers.
    “That’s all we have in the last ten days,” Capetillo said. “Your Mexicans, Chicanos, a lot don’t report their missings to police. A cultural thing. Most just don’t trust the cops. Lot of times when people don’t turn up, they just figure they went south. A lot of people are here illegally. They won’t call the cops.”
    Bosch made it through the stack in five minutes. None of the reports fit the description of Juan Doe #67.
    “What about telexes, inquiries from Mexico?”
    “Now that’s something different. We keep official correspondence separate. I could look. Why don’t you tell me what you’re pushing.”
    “I’m pushing a hunch.