“Okay, what about the prints in the room? Explain that?”

“Easy. Those were his prints. Donovan, the SID guy, told me he pulled prints from the Department of Justice computer. Those would have been Moore’s real prints. That meant he was really in the room. It doesn’t mean it’s his body. Normally, one set of exemplars-the ones from the DOJ computer-would be used to do all the match work, but Irving screwed it up by going to the P-file. And that’s the beauty of Moore’s plan. He knew Irving or someone in the department would do it this way. He could count on it because he knew the department would put a rush on the autopsy, the ID, everything, because it was a fellow officer. It’s been done before and he knew they would do it for him.”

“Donovan never did a cross-match between our prints and the set he pulled?”

“Nope, because it wasn’t the routine. He might’ve gotten around to it later when he thought about it. But things were happening too fast on this case.”

“Shit,” she said. He knew he was winning her over. “What about the tattoo?”

“It’s a barrio insignia. A lot of people could have had them. I think Zorrillo had one.”

“Who is he?”

“He grew up with Moore down here. They might be brothers, I don’t know. Anyway, Zorrillo became the local drug kingpin. Moore went to L.A. and became a cop. But somehow Moore was working for him up there. The story goes on from there. The DEA raided Zorrillo’s ranch last night. He got away. But I don’t think it was Zorrillo. It was Moore.”

“You saw him?”

“I didn’t need to.”

“Is anyone looking for him?”

“The DEA is looking. They’re concentrating in interior Mexico. Then again, they’re looking for Zorrillo. Moore may never turn up again.”

“It all seems… You’re saying Moore killed Zorrillo and then traded places with him?”

“Yeah. Somehow he got Zorrillo to L.A. They meet at the Hideaway and Moore puts him down-the trauma to the back of the head you found. He puts his boots and clothes on the body. Then he blows the face away with the shotgun. He makes sure to leave some of his own prints around to make Donovan bite and puts the note in the back pocket.

“I think the note worked on a number of levels. It was taken as a suicide note at first. Authenticating the handwriting helped add to the identification. On another level, I think it was something personal between Moore and Zorrillo. Goes back to the barrio. ‘Who are you?’ ‘I found out who I was.’ That part of it is a long story.”

They were both silent for a while, rethinking all of what Bosch had just said. He knew there were still a lot of loose ends. A lot of deception.

“Why all the killings?” she asked. “Porter and Juan Doe, what did they have to do with anything?”

This is where he had few answers.

“I don’t know. They were somehow in the way, I guess. Zorrillo had Jimmy Kapps killed because he was an informant. I think Moore was the one who told Zorrillo. After that Juan Doe-his name, by the way, is Gutierrez-Llosa-gets beaten to death down here and taken up there. I don’t know why. Then Moore pops Zorrillo and takes his place. Why he had to do Porter, I don’t know. I guess he thought Lou might figure it out.”

“That’s so cold.”

“Yeah.”

“How could it happen?” she asked then, more to herself than Bosch. “They are about to bury him, this drug dealer… full honors, the mayor and chief there. The media.”

“And you’ll know the truth.”

She thought about that for a long time before asking the next question.

“Why did he do it?”

“I don’t know. We’re talking about different lives. The cop and the drug dealer. But there must’ve been something still between them, that bond-whatever it is-from the barrio. And somehow one day the cop crosses over, starts watching out for the dealer on the streets of L.A. Who knows what made him do it. Maybe money, maybe just something he had lost a long time ago when he was a kid.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m still thinking.”

“If they were that close, why did he kill him?”

“I guess we’ll have to ask him. If we ever find him. Maybe he-maybe like you said it was just to take Zorrillo’s place. All that money. Or maybe it was guilt. He got in too far and he needed a way to end it… Moore was-or is-hung up on the past. His wife said that. Maybe he was trying to recapture something, go back. I don’t know yet.”

There was silence on the line again. Bosch took a last drag on his cigarette.

“The plan seems almost perfect,” he said. “He leaves a body behind in circumstances he knew would make the department not want to come looking.”

“But you did, Harry.”

“Yeah.”

And here I am, he thought. He knew what he had to do now. He had to finish it. He could see the ghostly figures of several people in the park now. They were waking to another day of desperation.

“Why did you call me, Harry? What do you want me to do?”

“I called because I have to trust someone. I could only think of you, Teresa.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“You have access to the DOJ prints in your office, right?”

“That’s how we make most of our IDs. That’s how we will make all of them after this. I have Irving by the balls now.”

“Do you still have the print card he brought over for the autopsy?”

“Um, I don’t know. But I’m sure the techs made a copy of it to keep with the body. You want me to do the cross-check?”

“Yeah, do a cross and you’ll see they don’t match.”

“You’re so sure.”

“Yeah. I’m sure but you might as well confirm it.”

“Then what?”

“Then, I guess, I’ll see you at the funeral. I’ve got one more stop to make and then I’m heading up.”

“What stop?”

“I want to check out a castle. It’s part of the long story. I’ll tell you later.”

“You don’t want to try to stop the funeral?”

Harry thought a few moments before answering. He thought of Sylvia Moore and the mystery she still held for him. Then he thought about the idea of a drug lord getting a cop’s farewell.

“No, I don’t want to stop it. Do you?”

“No way.”

He knew her reasons were far different from his. But he didn’t care about that. Teresa was well on her way to winning her assignment as permanent chief medical examiner. If Irving got in her way now, he’d end up looking like one of the customers in the autopsy suite. In that case, more power to her, he thought.

“I’ll see you in a little bit,” he said.

“Be careful, Harry.”

Bosch hung up and lit another cigarette. The morning sun was up now and beginning to burn the ground fog off the park. People were moving around over there. He thought he heard a woman laughing. But at the moment he felt very much alone in the world.

32

Bosch pulled his car up to the front gate at the end of Coyote Trail and saw that the circular driveway in front of Castillo de los Ojos was still empty. But the thick chain that had secured the two halves of the iron gate the day before hung loose and the lock was open. Moore was here.

Harry left his car there, blocking the exit, and slipped through the gate on foot. He ran across the brown lawn in a crouched, uneasy trot, mindful that the windows of the tower looked down at him like the dark accusing eyes of a giant. He pressed himself against the stucco surface of the wall next to the front door. He was breathing heavily and sweating, though the morning air was still quite cool.

The knob was locked. He stood there unmoving for a long period, listening for something but hearing nothing. Finally, he ducked below the line of windows that fronted the first floor and moved around the house to the side of the four-bay garage. There was another door here and it, too, was locked.

Bosch recognized the rear of the house from the photographs that had been in Moore’s bag. He saw the sliding doors running along the pool deck. One door was open and the wind buffeted the white curtain. It flapped like a hand beckoning him to come in.