The black ice by Connelly Michael

Author:Connelly, Michael [Connelly, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Police Procedural, Detective and mystery stories, Crime & mystery, Mystery & Detective, General, Harry (Fictitious character), American, Suspense, General & Literary Fiction, Police, Crime & Thriller, Fiction, Bosch
ISBN: 9780752859637
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2004-09-15T14:00:00+00:00

He had a hard, sullen look in his eyes. In the picture Cal had his right arm cocked and was making a muscle for the photographer.

Bosch saw the tattoo was already there. The devil with a halo.

Saints and Sinners.

In the photos after that, the other boy never appeared again.

These were color shots taken in Los Angeles. Bosch recognized City Hall shooting up in the background of one of them and the fountain in Echo Park in another. Moore and his mother had come to the United States.

Whoever the other boy was, he had been left behind.

Toward the end of the stack, the mother dropped out of the photos as well. Harry wondered if that meant she was dead. The final two pictures were of Moore as an adult.

The first was his graduation from the police academy. There was a shot of a class of newly sworn officers gathered on the grass outside what was later renamed the Daryl F. Gates Auditorium. They were throwing their hats into the air. Bosch picked Moore out of the crowd. He had his arm around the shoulder of another probee and there was genuine joy in his face.

And the last photo was of Moore in dress uniform pulling a young Sylvia close in a smiling cheek-to-cheek embrace.

Her skin was smoother then, her eyes brighter and her hair longer and fuller. But she was still very much the same as now, still a beautiful woman.

He pushed the photographs back into the bag and put it on the couch next to him. He looked at the bag and was curious why the photos had never been mounted in an album or put on display. They were just glimpses of a lifetime kept in a bag and ready to go.

But he knew the reason. At his home he had stacks of his own pictures that he would never mount in a book, that he felt the need to hold when he looked at them. They were more than pictures of another time.

They were parts of a life, a life that could not go forward without knowing and understanding what was behind.

Bosch reached up to the lamp and turned it off. He smoked another cigarette, the glow of its tip floating in the dark. He thought about Mexico and Calexico Moore.

"You tucked up," he whispered again.

He had told himself he had to come here to get a feel for Moore.

That was how he had sold it to himself. But sitting there in the dark he knew there was more to it. He knew he had come because he wanted to understand a life's course that could not be explained. The only one with an the answers to all of the questions was Cal Moore. And he was gone.

He looked at the white neon glow on the curtains across the room and they looked like ghosts to him. It made him think of the worn photo of the father and son, fading to white. He thought of his own father, a man he never knew and did not meet until he was on his death bed.

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