Michael Connelly: The Black Ice

He pulled the sheet off the front end of the other car and recognized it as the Thunderbird he had seen in the father-and-son photo in Moore’s bag. Looking at the car, Bosch wondered how far back you have to go to trace the reason for a person’s choices in life. He didn’t know the answer about Moore. He didn’t know the answer about himself.

He went back to the living room and stopped and listened. There was nothing. The house seemed still, empty, and it smelled dusty, like time spent slowly and painfully in wait for something or someone not coming. All the rooms were full of ghosts. He was considering the shape of a shrouded fan chair when he heard the noise. From above, like the sound of a shoe dropping on a wood floor.

He moved toward the front and in the entry area he saw the wide stone staircase. Bosch moved up the steps. The noise from above was not repeated.

On the second floor he went down a carpeted hallway, looking through the doors to four bedrooms and two bathrooms but finding each room empty.

He went back to the stairs and up into the tower. The lone door at the top landing was open and Harry heard no sound. He crouched and moved slowly into the opening, the sawed-off leading the way like a water finder’s divining rod.

Moore was there. Standing with his back to the door and looking at himself in the mirror. The mirror was on the back of a closet door which was open slightly, angling the glass so that it did not catch Harry’s reflection. He watched Moore unseen for a few moments, then looked around. There was a bed in the center of the room with an open suitcase on it. Next to it was a gym bag that was zipped closed and already appeared to be packed. Moore still had not moved. He was intently staring at the reflection of his face. He had a full beard now, and his eyes were brown. He wore faded blue jeans, new snakeskin boots, a black T-shirt and a black leather jacket with matching gloves. He was Melrose Avenue cool. From a distance he could easily pass for the pope of Mexicali.

Bosch saw the wood grips and chrome handle of an automatic tucked into Moore’s belt.

“You going to say something, Harry? Or just stare.”

Without moving his hands or head, Moore shifted his weight to the left and then he and Bosch were staring at each other in the mirror.

“Picked up a new pair of boots before you put Zorrillo down, didn’t you?”

Now Moore turned completely to face him. But he didn’t say anything.

“Keep your hands out front like that,” Bosch said.

“Whatever you say, Harry. You know, I kinda thought that if somebody came, you’d be the one.”

“You wanted somebody to come, didn’t you?”

“Some days I did. Some days I didn’t.”

Bosch moved into the room and then took a step sideways so he was directly facing Moore.

“New contacts, beard. You look like the pope-from a distance. But how’d you convince his lieutenants, his guardia . They were just going to stand back and let you move in and take his place?”

“Money convinced them. They’d probably let you move in there if you had the bread, Harry. See, anything is negotiable when you have your hands on the purse strings. And I did.”

Moore nodded slightly toward the duffel bag on the bed.

“How about you? I have money. Not much. About a hundred and ten grand there.”

“I figured you’d be running away with a fortune.”

“Oh, I am. I am. What’s in the bag is just what I have on hand. You caught me a little short. But I can get you more. It’s in the banks.”

“Guess you’ve been practicing Zorrillo’s signature as well as his looks.”

Moore didn’t answer.

“Who was he?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Half brother. Different fathers.”

“This place. This is what it was all about, wasn’t it? It’s the castle you lived in before you were sent away.”

“Something like that. Decided to buy it after he was gone. But it’s falling apart on me. It’s so hard to take care of something you love these days. Everything is a chore.”

Bosch tried to study him. He looked tired of it all.

“What happened back at the ranch?” Bosch asked.

“You mean the three bodies? Yes, well, I guess you could say justice happened. Grena was a leech who had been sucking Zorrillo for years. Arpis detached him, you could say.”

“Then who detached Arpis and Dance?”

“I did that, Harry.”

He said it without hesitation and the words froze Bosch. Moore was a cop. He knew never to confess. You didn’t talk until there was a lawyer by your side, a plea bargain in place, and a deal that was signed.

Harry adjusted his sweating hands on the sawed-off. He took a step forward and listened for any other sound in the house. There was only silence until Moore spoke again.

“I’m not going back, Harry. I guess you know that.”

He said it matter-of-factly, as if it was a given, something that had been decided a long time ago.

“How’d you get Zorrillo up to L.A., and then into that motel room? How’d you get his prints for the personnel file?”

“You want me to tell you, Harry? Then what?”

Moore looked down at the gym bag briefly.

“Then nothing. We’re going back to L.A. You haven’t been advised-nothing you can say now can be used against you. It’s just you and me here.”

“The prints were easy. I was making him IDs. He had three or four so he could come across when he liked. One time he told me he wanted a passport and full wallet spread. I told him I needed prints. Took ’em myself.”

“And the motel?”

“Like I said, he crossed over all the time. He’d go through the tunnel and the DEA would be out there sitting on the ranch thinking he was still inside. He liked to come up to see the Lakers, sit down on court level near that blonde actress who likes to get on TV. Anyway, he was up there and I told him I wanted to meet. He came.”

“And you put him down and took his place… What about the old man, the laborer? What did he do?”

“He was just in the wrong place. Zorrillo told me he was there when he came up through the floor on the last trip. He wasn’t supposed to be in that room. But I guess he couldn’t read the signs. Zorrillo said he couldn’t take the chance he’d tell someone about the tunnel.”

“Why’d you dump him in the alley? Why didn’t you just bury him out in Joshua Tree. Someplace he’d never be found.”

“The desert would’ve been good but I didn’t dump him, Bosch. Don’t you see? They were controlling me. They brought him up here and dumped him there. Arpis did. That night I get a call from Zorrillo telling me to meet him at the Egg and I. He says park in the alley. I did and there was the body. I wasn’t going to move the fucking thing. I called it in. You see it was one more way for him to keep his hold on me. And I went along. Porter caught the case and I made a deal with him to take it slow.”

Bosch didn’t say anything. He was trying to envision the sequence Moore had just described.

“This is getting boring, man. You going to try to cuff me, take me in, be the hero?”

“Why couldn’t you let it go?” Bosch asked.

“What?”

“This place. Your father. The whole thing. You should have let the past go.”

“I was robbed of my life, man. He kicked us right out. My mother-How do you let go of a past like that? Fuck you, Bosch. You don’t know.”

Bosch said nothing. But he knew he was allowing this to go on too long. Moore was taking control of the situation.

“When I heard he was dead, it did something,” Moore said. “I don’t know. I decided I wanted this place and I went to see my brother. That was my mistake. Things started small but they never stopped. Soon I was running the show for him up there. I had to get out from under it. There was only one way.”