The Black Ice (hb-2)

all three calls had come in during the last two hours. First Pounds, then Irving, then Pounds again.
    “Wait a minute,” he said to Miguel. “Is there a phone?”
    “Around the corner, sir, to your right.”
    Bosch stood there with the phone in his hand wondering what to do. Something was up, or both of them wouldn’t have tried to reach him. Something had made one or both of them call his house and they heard the taped message. What could have happened? Using his PacBell card he called the Hollywood homicide table, hoping someone was in and that he might learn what was going on. Jerry Edgar answered the call on the first ring.
    “Jed, what’s up? I’ve got phone calls from the weight coming out my ass.”
    There was a long silence. Too long.
    “Jed?”
    “Harry, where you at?”
    “I’m down south, man.”
    “Where down south?”
    “What is it, Jed?”
    “Wherever you’re at, Pounds is trying to recall you. He said if anybody talks to you, t’tell you to get your ass back here. He said-”
    “Why? What’s going on?”
    “It’s Porter, man. They found him this morning up at Sunshine Canyon. Somebody wrapped a wire ’round his neck so tight that it was the size of a watchband.”
    “Jesus.” Bosch pulled out his cigarettes. “Jesus.”
    “Yeah.”
    “What was he doing up there? Sunshine, that’s the landfill up in Foothill Division, right?”
    “Shit, Harry, he was dumped there.”
    Of course. Bosch should have realized that. Of course. He wasn’t thinking right.
    “Right. Right. What happened?”
    “What happened was that they found his body out there this morning. A rag picker come across it. He was covered in garbage and shit. But RHD traced some of the stuff. They got receipts from some restaurants. They got the name of the hauler the restaurants use and they’ve got it traced to a particular truck and a particular route. It’s a downtown run. Was made yesterday morning. Hollywood’s working it with them. I’m fixing to go start canvassing on the route. We’ll find the Dumpster he came from and go from there.”
    Bosch thought of the Dumpster behind Poe’s. Porter hadn’t run out on him. He had probably been garroted and dragged out while Bosch was having his say with the bartender. Then he remembered the man with the tattooed tears. How had he missed it? He had probably stood ten feet from Porter’s killer.
    “I didn’t go out to the scene but I hear he’d been worked over before they did him,” Edgar said. “His face was busted up. Nose broke, stuff like that. A lot of blood, I hear. Man, what a pitiful way to go.”
    It wouldn’t be long before they came into Poe’s with photos of Porter. The bartender would remember the face and would gladly describe Bosch as the man who had come in, said he was a cop, and attacked Porter. Bosch wondered if he should tell Edgar now and save a lot of legwork. A survival instinct flared inside him and he decided to say nothing about Poe’s.
    “Why do Pounds and Irving want me?”
    “Don’t know. All I know is first Moore gets it, then Porter. Think maybe they’re closing ranks or something. I think they want everybody in where it’s nice and safe. Word going ’round here is that those two cases are one. Word is those boys had some kinda deal going. Irving’s already doubled them up. He’s running a joint op on both of them. Moore and Porter.”
    Bosch didn’t say anything. He was trying to think. This put a new spin on everything.
    “Listen to me, Jed. You haven’t heard from me. We didn’t talk. Understand?”
    Edgar hesitated before saying, “You sure you want to play it that way?”
    “Yeah. For now. I’ll be talking to you.”
    “Watch your back.”
    Watch out for the black ice, Bosch thought as he hung up and stood there for a minute, leaning against the wall. Porter. How had this happened? He instinctively moved his arm against his hip but felt no reassurance. The holster was empty.
    He had a choice now: go forward to Mexicali or go back to L.A. He knew if he went back it would mean the end of his involvement in the case. Irving would cut him out like a bad spot on a banana.
    Therefore, he realized, he actually had no choice. He had to go on. Bosch pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and went back to the front desk. He slid the bill across to Miguel.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “I’d like to cancel my room, Miguel.”
    “No problem. There is no charge. You never got the room.”
    “No, that’s for you,