pulling down the yellow tape. Bosch saw Donovan heading to his van, carrying the shotgun, which was wrapped in plastic, and several smaller evidence bags.
Harry used the van's bumper to tie his shoe while Donovan stowed the evidence bags in a wooden box that had once carried Napa Valley wine.
"What do you want, Harry? I just found out you weren't supposed to be here."
"That was before. This is now. I just got put on the case. I got next-of-kin duty."
"Some case to be put on."
"Yeah, well, you take what they give. What did he say?"
"Who?"
"Moore."
"Look, Harry, this is—"
"Look, Donnie, Irving gave me next of kin. I think that cuts me in. I just want to know what he said. I knew this guy, okay? It won't go anywhere else."
Donovan exhaled heavily, reached into the box and began sorting through the evidence bags.
"Really didn't say much at all. Nothing that profound."
He turned on a flashlight and put the beam on the bag with the note in it. Just one line.
I found out who I was
Three
THE ADDRESS IRVING HAD GIVEN HIM WAS IN Canyon Country, nearly an hour's drive north of Hollywood. Bosch took the Hollywood Freeway north, then connected with the Golden State and took it through the dark cleft of the Santa Susanna Mountains. Traffic was sparse. Most people were inside their homes eating roasted turkey and dressing, he guessed. Bosch thought of Cal Moore and what he did and what he left behind.
I found out who I was.
Bosch had no clue to what the dead cop had meant by the one line scratched on a small piece of paper and placed in the back pocket. Harry's single experience with Moore was all he had to go on. And what was that? A couple of hours drinking beer and whiskey with a morose and cynical cop. There was no way to know what had happened in the meantime. To know how the shell that protected him had corroded.
He thought back on his meeting with Moore. It had been only a few weeks before and it had been business, but Moore's problems managed to come up. They met on a Tuesday night at the Catalina Bar & Grill. Moore was working but the Catalina was just a half block south of the Boulevard. Harry was waiting at the bar in the back corner. They never charged cops the cover.
Moore slid onto the next stool and ordered a shot and a Henry's, the same as Bosch had on the bar in front of him. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that hung loose over his belt. Standard undercover attire and he looked at home in it. The thighs of the jeans were worn gray. The sleeves of the sweatshirt were cut off and peeking from below the frayed fringe of the right arm was the face of a devil tattooed in blue ink. Moore was handsome in a rugged way, but he was at least three days past needing a shave and he had a look about him, an unsteadiness—like a hostage released after long captivity and torment. In the Catalina crowd he stood out like a garbage man at a wedding. Harry noticed that the narc hooked gray snakeskin boots on the side rungs of the stool. They were bulldoggers, the boots favored by rodeo ropers because the heels angled forward to give better traction when taking down a roped calf. Harry knew street narcs called them "dustbusters" because they served the same purpose when they were taking down a suspect high on angel dust.
They smoked and drank and small-talked at first, trying to establish connections and boundaries. Bosch noticed that the name Calexico truly represented Moore's mixed heritage. Dark complexioned, with hair black as ink, thin hips and wide shoulders, Moore's dark, ethnic image was contradicted by his eyes. They were the eyes of a California surfer, green like antifreeze. And there was not a trace of Mexico in his voice.
"There's a border town named Calexico. Right across from Mexicali. Ever been there?"
"I was born there. That's how come I got the name."
"I've never been."
"Don't worry, you haven't missed much. Just a border town like all the rest. I still go on down every now and then."
"Family?"
"Nah, not anymore."
Moore signaled the bartender for another round, then lit a cigarette off the one he had smoked down to the filter.
"I thought you had something to ask about," he said.