He stood up once more, thanked Donovan for the information and left.
He took the stairs down to the third floor and walked into the RHD suite. Most of the desks lined in three rows were empty, as it was after five o’clock. Sheehan’s was among those that were deserted in the Homicide Special bullpen. A few of the detectives still there glanced up at him but then looked away. Bosch was of no interest to them. He was a symbol of what could happen, of how easily one could fall.
“Sheehan still around?” he asked the duty detective who sat at the front desk and handled the phone lines, incoming reports and all the other shitwork.
“Gone for the day,” she said without looking up from a staff vacation schedule she was filling out. “Called from the ME’s office a few minutes ago and said he was code seven until theA.M.”
“There a desk I can use for a few minutes? I have to make some phone calls.”
He hated to ask for such permission, having worked in this room for eight years.
“Just pick one,” she said. She still didn’t look up.
Bosch sat down at a desk that was reasonably clear of clutter. He called the Hollywood homicide table, hoping there would still be someone there. Karen Moshito answered and Bosch asked if he had any messages.
“Just one. Somebody named Sylvia. No last name given.”
He took the number down, feeling his pulse quicken.
“Did you hear about Moore?” Moshito asked.
“You mean the ID? Yeah, I heard.”
“No. The cut is screwed up. Radio news says the autopsy is inconclusive. I never heard of a shotgun in the face being inconclusive.”
“When did this come out?”
“I just heard it on KFWB at five.”
Bosch hung up and tried Porter’s number once more. Again there was no answer and no tape recording picked up. Harry wondered if the broken-down cop was there and just not answering. He imagined Porter sitting with a bottle in the corner of a dark room, afraid to answer the door or the phone.
He looked at the number he had written down for Sylvia Moore. He wondered if she had heard about the autopsy. That was probably it. She picked up after three rings.
“Mrs. Moore?”
“It’s Sylvia.”
“This is Harry Bosch.”
“I know.”
She didn’t say anything further.
“How are you holding up?”
“I think I’m okay. I… I called because I just want to thank you. For the way you were last night. With me.”
“Oh, well, you didn’t-it was…”
“You know that book I told you about last night?”
“The Long Goodbye?”
“There’s another line in it I was thinking about. ‘A white knight for me is as rare as a fat postman.’ I guess nowadays there are a lot of fat postmen.” She laughed very softly, almost like her crying. “But not too many white knights. You were last night.”
Bosch didn’t know what to say and just tried to envision her on the other end of the silence.
“That’s very nice of you to say. But I don’t know if I deserve it. Sometimes I don’t think the things I have to do make me much of a knight.”
They moved on to small talk for a few moments and then said good-bye. He hung up and sat still for a moment, staring at the phone and thinking about things said and unsaid. There was something there. A connection. Something more than her husband’s death. More than just a case. There was a connection between them.
He turned the pages of the notebook back to the chronological chart he had made earlier.
Nov. 9 Dance arrested Nov. 13 Jimmy Kapps dead Dec. 4 Moore, Bosch meet
He now started to add other dates and facts, even some that did not seem to fit into the picture at the moment. But his overriding feeling was that his cases were linked and the link was Calexico Moore. He didn’t stop to consider the chart as a whole until he was finished. Then he studied it, finding that it gave some context to the thoughts that had jumbled in his head in the last two days.
Nov. 1 BANG cya memo on black ice Nov. 9 Rickard gets tip-from Jimmy Kapps Nov. 9 Dance arrested, case kicked Nov. 13 Jimmy Kapps dead Dec. 4 Moore, Bosch meet- Moore holds back Dec. 11 Moore receives DEA briefing Dec. 18 Moore finds body-Juan Doe #67 Dec. 18 Porter assigned Juan Doe case Dec. 19 Moore checks in, Hideaway-suicide? Dec. 24 Juan Doe #67 autopsy-bugs? Dec. 25 Moore ’s body found Dec. 26 Porter pulls pin Dec. 26 Moore autopsy-inconclusive?
But he couldn’t study it too long without thinking of Sylvia Moore.
9
Bosch took Los Angeles Street to Second and then up to the Red Wind. In front of St. Vibiana’s he saw an entourage of bedraggled, homeless men leaving the church. They had spent the day sleeping in the pews and were now heading to the Union Street mission for dinner. As he passed theTimes building he looked up at the clock and saw it was exactly six. He turned on KFWB for the news. The Moore autopsy was the second story, after a report on how the mayor had become the latest victim in a wave of kamikazi AIDS protests. He was hit with a balloon full of pig blood on the white stone steps of City Hall. A group called Cool AIDS took credit.
“In other news, an autopsy on the body of Police Sergeant Calexico Moore was inconclusive in confirming that the narcotics officer took his own life, according to the Los Angeles County coroner’s office. Meanwhile, police have officially classified the death as suicide. The thirty-eight-year-old officer’s body was found Christmas Day in a Hollywood motel room. He had been dead of a shotgun blast for about a week, authorities said. A suicide note was found at the scene but the contents have not been released. Moore will be buried Monday.”
Bosch turned the radio off. The news report had obviously come from a press release. He wondered what was meant by the autopsy results being inconclusive. That was the only grain of real news in the whole report.
After parking at the curb in front of the Red Wind he went inside but did not see Teresa Corazón. He went into the restroom and splashed water on his face. He needed a shave. He dried himself with a paper towel and tried to smooth his mustache and curly hair with his hand. He loosened his tie, then stood there a long moment staring at his reflection. He saw the kind of man not many people approached unless they had to.
He got a package of cigarettes from the machine by the restroom door and looked around again but still didn’t see her. He went to the bar and ordered an Anchor and then took it to an empty table by the front door. The Wind was becoming crowded with the after-work crowd. People in business suits and dresses. There were a lot of combinations of older men with younger women. Harry recognized several reporters from theTimes. He began to think Teresa had picked a bad place to meet, if she intended to show up at all. With today’s autopsy story, she might be noticed by the reporters. He drained the beer bottle and left the bar.
He was standing in the chilled evening air on the front sidewalk, looking down the street into the Second Street tunnel, when he heard a horn honk and a car pulled to a stop in front of him. The electric window glided down. It was Teresa.
“Harry, wait inside. I’ll just find a place to park. Sorry I’m late.”
Bosch leaned into the window.
“I don’t know. Lot of reporters in there. I heard on the radio about the Moore autopsy. I don’t know if you want to risk getting hassled.”
He could see reasons for it and against it. Getting her name in the paper improved her chances of changing acting chief ME to permanent chief. But the wrong thing said or a misquote could just as easily change acting to interim or, worse yet, former.
“Where can we go?” she asked.
Harry opened the door and got in.
“Are you hungry? We can go down to Gorky ’s or the Pantry.”