similar to the body he had. The captain explained that he was familiar with the case, that he had taken the report before handing the case to Aguila. Bosch asked whether there were fingerprints available to confirm the identification but the captain said there were none. Chalk one up for Capetillo, Bosch thought.
"Perhaps you have a photograph from your morgue of this man that you could send to us," the captain said. "We could make identification from the family of Mr. Gutierrez-Llosa."
"Yes. I have photos. The letter said Gutierrez-Llosa was a laborer?"
"Yes. He found day work at the circle where employers come to find workers. Beneath the statue of Benito Juarez."
"Do you know if he worked at a place, a business called EnviroBreed? It does business with the state of California."
There was a long silence before the Mexican replied.
"I am sorry. I do not know of his work history. I have taken notes and will discuss this with Investigator Aguila upon his return. If you send the photographs we will act promptly on securing positive identification. I will personally expedite this matter and contact you."
Now Bosch let silence fill the phone connection. "Captain, I didn't get your name."
"Gustavo Grena, director of investigations, Mexicali."
"Captain Grena, please tell Aguila that he will have the photos tomorrow."
"That soon?"
"Yes. Tell him I'm bringing them down myself."
"Investigator Bosch, this is not necessary. I believe—"
"Don't worry, Captain Grena," Bosch cut him off. "Tell him I will be there by early afternoon, no later."
"As you wish."
Bosch thanked him and hung up. He looked up and saw Pounds staring at him through the glass in his office. The lieutenant raised his thumb and his eyebrows in an inquiring, pleading way. Bosch looked away.
A laborer, Bosch thought. Fernal Gutierrez-Llosa was a day laborer who got jobs at the circle, whatever that was. How did a day laborer fit? Perhaps he was a mule who brought black ice across the border. And perhaps he had not been a part of the smuggling operation at all. Perhaps he had done nothing to warrant his death other than to be somewhere he should not have been, seen something he should not have seen.
What Bosch had were just parts of the whole. What he needed was the glue that would correctly hold them together. When he had first received his gold shield he had a partner on the robbery table in Van Nuys who told him that facts weren't the most important part of an investigation, the glue was. He said the glue was made of instinct, imagination, sometimes guesswork and most times just plain luck.
Two nights earlier Bosch had looked at the facts that lay inside a run-down motel room and from them extrapolated a cop's suicide. He now knew he'd been wrong. He considered the facts again, along with everything else he had collected, and this time he saw a cop's murder as one of several connected murders. If Mexicali was the hub of the wheel with so many spokes, then Moore was the bolt that held the wheel on.
He took out his notebook and looked up the name of the DEA agent who was listed on the intelligence report Moore had put in the Zorrillo file. He then got the DEA's local number out of his Rolodex and dialed it. The man who answered asked who was calling when Bosch asked for Corvo.
"Tell him it's the ghost of Calexico Moore."
One minute later a voice said, "Who's this?"
"Corvo?"
"Look, you want to talk, give me an ID. Otherwise I hang up."
Bosch identified himself.
"What's with the ruse, man?"
"Never mind. I want to meet."
"You haven't given me a reason yet."
"You want a reason? Okay. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to Mexicali. I'm going after Zorrillo. I could use some help from somebody who knows his shit. I thought you might want to talk first. Being that you were Cal Moore's source."
"Who says I even knew the guy?"
"You took my call, didn't you? You also were passing DEA intelligence to him. He told me."
"Bosch, I spent seven years under. You trying to bluff me? Uh-uh. Try some of the eightball dealers on Hollywood Boulevard. They might buy your line."
"Look, man, at seven o'clock I'll be at the Code Seven, in the back bar. After that, I'll be heading south. It's your choice. If I see you, I see you."
"And if I decide to show up, how will I know you?"
"Don't worry. I'll know you. You'll be the guy who still thinks he's undercover."