Michael Connelly - The Black Ice

“Yes. The entrance.”

“Zorrillo’s name never came up before you heard it from me?”

“Not until you said it.”

Aguila offered no other comment. In a minute they were coming up to some buildings inside the ranch’s fence line but close to the road. Bosch could see a concrete barnlike structure with a garage door that was closed. There were corrals on either side of it and in these he saw a half dozen bulls in single pens. He saw no one around.

“He breeds bulls for the ring,” Aguila said.

“I heard that. Lot of money in that around here, huh?”

“All from the seed of one prized bull. El Temblar. A very famous animal in Mexicali. The bull that killed Meson, the famous torero. He lives here now and roams the ranch at his will, taking the heifers as he wishes. A champion animal.”

“The Tremble?” he said.

“Yes. It is said that man and earth tremble when the beast charges. That is the legend. The death of Meson a decade ago is very well known. A story recalled each Sunday at the plaza.”

“And the Tremble just runs around in there loose? Like a watchdog or something. A bulldog.”

“Sometimes people stand at the fence waiting for a glimpse of the great animal. The bulls his seed produces are considered the most game in all of Baja. Pull over here.”

Bosch turned onto the shoulder. He noticed Aguila was looking across the street at a line of warehouses and businesses. Some had signs on them. Most in English. They were companies that used cheap Mexican labor and paid low taxes to make products for the United States. There were furniture manufacturers, tile makers, circuit board factories.

“See the Mexitec Furniture building?” Aguila said. “The second structure down, with no sign, that is EnviroBreed.”

It was a white building, and Aguila was right. No sign or other indication of what went on there. It was surrounded by a ten-foot fence topped with razor wire. Signs on the fence warned in two languages that it was electrified and there were dogs inside of it. Bosch didn’t see any dogs and decided they were probably only put in the yard at night. He did see two cameras on the front corners of the building and several cars parked inside the compound. He saw no EnviroBreed vans but the two garage doors at the front of the building were closed.

Bosch had to press a button, state his business and hold his badge up to a remote camera before the fence gate automatically rolled open. He parked next to a maroon Lincoln with California tags and they walked across the dusty unpaved lot to the door marked Office. He brushed his hand against the back of his hip and felt the gun under his jacket. A small measure of comfort. The door was opened as he reached for the doorknob and a man wearing a Stetson to shade his acne-scarred and sun-hardened face stepped out lighting a cigarette. He was an Anglo and Bosch thought he might have been the van driver he had seen at the eradication center in L.A.

“Last door on the left,” the man said. “He’s waiting.”

“Who’s he?”

“Him.”

The man in the Stetson smiled and Bosch thought his face might crack. Bosch and Aguila stepped through the door into a wood-paneled hallway. It went straight back with a small reception desk on the left followed by three doors. At the end of the hall there was a fourth door. A young Mexican woman sat at the reception desk and stared at them silently. Bosch nodded and they headed back. The first door they passed was closed and letters on it said USDA. The next two doors had no letters. The one at the end of the hall had a sign that said:

DANGER – RADIATION NO UNAUTHORIZED ADMITTANCE

Harry saw a hook next to the door that had goggles and breathing masks hanging on it. He opened the last door on the left and they stepped into a small anteroom with a secretary’s desk but no secretary.

“In here, please,” a voice said from the next room.

Bosch and Aguila stepped into a large office that was weighted in the center by a huge steel desk. A man in a light blue guayaberra shirt sat behind it. He was writing something in a ledger book and there was a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee on the desk. Enough light came through the jalousie window behind him so that he didn’t need a desk light. He looked about fifty years old, with gray hair that showed streaks of old black dye. He also was a gringo.

The man said nothing and continued writing. Bosch looked around and saw the four-picture closed-circuit television console on a low shelf against the wall next to the desk. He saw the black-and-white images from the gate and front corners. The fourth image was very dark and was an interior look at what Harry assumed was the cargo-loading room. He saw a white van with its rear doors open, two or three men loading large white boxes into it.

“Yes?” the man said. He still hadn’t looked up.

“Quite a lot of security for flies.”

Now he looked up. “Excuse me?”

“Didn’t know they were so valuable.”

“What can I do for you?” He threw his pen down on the desk to signal that the wheels of international commerce were grinding to a halt because of Bosch.

“Harry Bosch, Los Angeles po-”

“You said that at the gate. What can I do for you?”

“I am here to talk about one of your employees.”

“Name?” He picked up the pen again and went back to work on the ledger.

“You know something? I would think that if a cop had come three hundred miles, crossed the border, just to ask you a few questions, then it might rate a little interest. But not with you. That bothers me.”

The pen went down harder this time and bounced off the desk into the trash can next to it.

“Officer, I don’t care whether it bothers you or not. I have a shipment of perishable material I must get on the road by four o’clock. I can’t afford to show the interest you seem to think you rate. Now, if you want to give me the employee’s name-that is, if he was an employee-I will answer what I can.”

“What do you mean ‘was an employee’?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘was,’ just then.”

“So?”

“So, what’s it mean?”

“You said-you’re the one who came in here with these questions. I-”

“And your name is?”

“What?”

“What is your name?”

The man stopped, thoroughly confused, and drank from the cup. He said, “You know, mister, you have no authority here.”

“You said, ‘even if the guy was an employee,’ and I never said anything about ‘was.’ Makes me think, you already know we are talking about an individual that was. Who is dead now.”

“I just assumed, okay. A cop comes all the way down from L.A., I just assumed we were talking about a dead guy. Don’t try to put words-you can’t come in here with that badge that isn’t worth the tin it’s made of once you cross that border and start pushing me. I don’t have-”

“You want some authority? This is Carlos Aguila of the State Judicial Police here. You can consider that he is asking the same questions as me.”

Aguila nodded but said nothing.

“That’s not the point,” the man behind the desk said. “The point is this typical bullshit American imperialism you bring with you. I find it very distasteful. My name is Charles Ely. I am proprietor of EnviroBreed. I do not know anything about the man you said worked here.”

“I didn’t tell you his name.”

“It doesn’t matter. You understand now? You made a mistake. You played this game wrong.”

Bosch took the morgue photo of Gutierrez-Llosa out of his pocket and slid it across the desk. Ely did not touch the photo but looked down at it. He showed no reaction that Bosch could see. Then Bosch put down the pay stubs. Same thing. No reaction.