The Black Ice (hb-2)

along.
    He drove to the station on Wilcox, trying to determine a strategy. He knew he would have to contact Aguila, the State Judicial Police officer who had sent the letter identifying Juan Doe #67 to the consulate. He would also have to contact the DEA, which had provided the intelligence report to Moore. He would have to get the trip cleared by Pounds, but he knew that might end it right there. He would have to work around that.
    In the bureau, the homicide table was empty. It was after four on a Friday, and a holiday week as well. With no new cases, the detectives would clear out as soon as possible to go home to families and lives outside the cop-shop. Harry could see Pounds in his glass booth; his head was down and he was writing on a piece of paper, using his ruler to keep his sentences on a straight line.
    Bosch sat down and checked through a pile of pink message slips at his spot. Nothing needing an immediate return. There were two from Bremmer at the
Times
but he had left the name Jon Marcus-a code they had once worked out so it would not become known that the reporter was calling for Bosch. There were a couple from DAs who were prosecuting cases Harry had worked and needed information or the location of evidence. There was a message that Teresa had called but he looked at the time on the note and saw that he had seen her since then. He guessed that she had called to tell him she wasn’t talking to him.
    There was no message from Porter and no message from Sylvia Moore. He took out the copy of the inquiry from Mexicali that the missing-persons detective, Capetillo, had given him and dialed the number Carlos Aguila had provided. The number was a general exchange for the SJP office. His Spanish was unconfident despite his recent refresher, and it took Bosch five minutes of explanations before he was connected to the investigations unit and asked once again for Aguila. He didn’t get him. Instead, he got a captain who spoke English and explained that Aguila was not in the office but would return later and would also be working Saturday. Bosch knew that the cops in Mexico worked six-day weeks.
    “Can I be of help?” the captain asked.
    Bosch explained that he was investigating a homicide and was answering the inquiry Aguila had sent to the consulate in Los Angeles. The description was similar to the body he had. The captain explained that he was familiar with the case, that he had taken the report before handing the case to Aguila. Bosch asked whether there were fingerprints available to confirm the identification but the captain said there were none. Chalk one up for Capetillo, Bosch thought.
    “Perhaps you have a photograph from your morgue of this man that you could send to us,” the captain said. “We could make identification from the family of Mr. Gutierrez-Llosa.”
    “Yes. I have photos. The letter said Gutierrez-Llosa was a laborer?”
    “Yes. He found day work at the circle where employers come to find workers. Beneath the statue of Benito Juarez.”
    “Do you know if he worked at a place, a business called EnviroBreed? It does business with the state of California.”
    There was a long silence before the Mexican replied.
    “I am sorry. I do not know of his work history. I have taken notes and will discuss this with Investigator Aguila upon his return. If you send the photographs we will act promptly on securing positive identification. I will personally expedite this matter and contact you.”
    Now Bosch let silence fill the phone connection.
    “Captain, I didn’t get your name.”
    “Gustavo Grena, director of investigations, Mexicali.”
    “Captain Grena, please tell Aguila that he will have the photos tomorrow.”
    “That soon?”
    “Yes. Tell him I’m bringing them down myself.”
    “Investigator Bosch, this is not necessary. I believe-”
    “Don’t worry, Captain Grena,” Bosch cut him off. “Tell him I will be there by early afternoon, no later.”
    “As you wish.”
    Bosch thanked him and hung up. He looked up and saw Pounds staring at him through the glass in his office. The lieutenant raised his thumb and his eyebrows in an inquiring, pleading way. Bosch looked away.
    A laborer, Bosch thought. Fernal Gutierrez-Llosa was a day laborer who got jobs at the circle, whatever that was. How did a day laborer fit? Perhaps he was a mule who brought black ice across the border. And perhaps he had not been a part of the smuggling operation at all. Perhaps he had done nothing to