The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan (16 page)

"Whatever happened to Sandra?"

George peeled back some tinfoil. "You mean
Hector's sister. Sanchez's wife."

"Yeah. The girl Jeremiah supposedly slept with.
Whatever happened to her?"

George hesitated. I could see a change in his eyes —
a distance that hadn't been there before. "Jeremiah Brandon had
a reputation, ese. The young girls who worked for him, or were family
members of men who did — Jeremiah liked making them his conquests.
He'd always win. Eventually the men would find out, but they usually
did nothing. What could they do? If they complained, they lost their
jobs. If they threatened, somebody like Zeta Sanchez would come visit
them in the middle of the night. Jeremiah had all the power."

"Lord of the manor."

"What?"

"Something Ozzie Gerson said. Go on."

George stared past me. "Jeremiah would get a
girl pregnant, or maybe the affair would just go on long enough where
the family couldn't tolerate it anymore — Jeremiah would solve the
problem by making the girl disappear. He'd give her a nice wad of
cash, put her on the next bus to somewhere, or hand her over to his
carnival buddies on their way out of town. She'd be gone to a new
life, anywhere in the country. Jeremiah would be on to his next
conquest."

"And Sandra?"

"A couple of days before Zeta Sanchez killed
Jeremiah Brandon, Sandra Sanchez disappeared."

"Ah."

"Yeah. Suddenly all these trips Jeremiah Brandon
was sending Sanchez on — all these collections Sanchez was making
all across the country, they started to have a new meaning for
Sanchez. His boss had been using that time to get friendly with
Sandra."

"Bad."

"Unforgivable. A loss of face like that for a
guy like Sanchez — unforgivable, ese."

"Maybe for Hector Mara, too. Sandra was Hector's
sister. Jeremiah Brandon used her and threw her away. Hector had as
much reason to hate the Brandons as Zeta Sanchez. If Hector needed to
get Sanchez out of the way and was looking for somebody to kill for
the frame-up, what more logical choice than a Brandon?"

George was quiet for a count of five. "Possible."

"But you've got something else. What is it,
George?"

"What do you mean?"

"You started to tell me something a minute ago,
then decided against it."

Slowly, George put together a grin. "I'm
thinking of a number between one and twenty, Navarre."

"Screw you."

George laughed. "Ask me tomorrow. I've got an
aversion to talking about leads before they work out."

"It's damn irritating."

"It's exactly the way you operate."

"Rub it in."

We finished eating in silence. George worked on the
carne guisada. I got through about half of my special. Nearby some
pigeons fought over an old popcorn box while Jem walked Captain Chaos
around the fountain, Jem's forearms getting speckled with water.

George crumpled his aluminum foil wrapper into a
baseball-sized wad and began flipping it up and catching it.

"At some point we're going to have to talk to
the SAPD again," I told him. "You find out anything more
about Ana DeLeon?"

George raised his eyebrows, did an overhand catch.
"Don't even think about it, Navarre."

"I'm only asking—"

"Yeah, I know." His eyes glittered. "I
met your old girlfriend from San Francisco last Christmas —
remember? Maia Lee?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That Ana DeLeon's just your type. And knowing
that should be enough to warn you off."

"You're so far off base—"

"'S'okay, man." George flipped his aluminum
foil ball. "You like the fortress women, the unapproachable
ones. You like the challenge. Try to settle for somebody who can't
out-think you and beat you at arm-wrestling — you're disappointed,
can't stick with it. Annie, Carolaiyn, how many others didn't make
the cut since Maia Lee, man? I've lost count."

There was no bitterness in his voice, no criticism.
His smile was even a little wistful.

"I won't dignify that with a response," I
told him.

"Don't need to."

He turned the aluminum ball in his fingers. His smile
disintegrated.

"What?" I asked.

George shook his head. "Old Jeremiah Brandon.
It's just that the more I hear about him, the stories, the way
Sanchez brought him down—"

"I know."

George shook his head. "I don't think you do,
ese. What Brandon could do to the people who worked for him, the
young women especially, the things he got away with — it hits me in
a place I don't want to be hit. I start feeling glad somebody shot
the old man, start wishing I'd even been there to see it. I begin
thinking of Zeta Sanchez as a hero. That scares me, ese. It scares me
a lot." We sat listening to the water sluice into the fountain,
the pigeons pecking at a potato chip under a nearby table.

I looked over at Jem, who was circling the rim of the
water fountain, his arms out like an airplane, his Captain Chaos
clenched in one fist.

The sight of Jem made me smile, as it always did.
Thank God for that kid. I looked over at George. He was apparently
thinking the same thing.

I said, "You bought Jem that damn figurine,
didn't you?"

George put his fingers on his chest. "And break
Erainya's no-toy rule?"

"Affection-buying bastard. What can I do while
you're out chasing leads?"

George smiled, a little sadness still in his eyes.

"You can teach your classes, Professor. What
else?"
 

EIGHTEEN

"Full name," Detective Kelsey demanded.

"A guy hits you in the stomach," I said,
"and you don't remember his name?"

The detective pushed back from his desk. His big
Irish nose turned brake-light red. "Did I ask you here,
asshole?"

"Jackson Navarre. You want me to spell it?"

"Give me your license."

He propped it on his keyboard and began clacking the
information into the computer, using index fingers only.

I scanned the corkboard on his cubicle wall. There
were pictures of Kelsey in camouflage next to a dead ten-point buck;
Kelsey in bowling clothes; Kelsey in a TCU football uniform; Kelsey
in SWAT black with an H&K 94 carbine. Lots of pictures of Kelsey.
Lots of sports equipment and guns and deceased animals.

Zero other human beings.

Down the central walkway of the SAPD homicide office,
foot traffic was light. It was Wednesday evening but could just as
easily have been three A.M. Monday or one P.M. Friday. No windows
gave away the time, no change of lighting, no clocks. To the left and
right, gray walls and gray carpet and gray five-foot-high dividing
walls stretched out, the colorlessness punctuated here and there by a
troll doll goggling over someone's cubicle, a sad ivy plant, a
buzz-cut head asking something of the buzz-cut head next door. The
space was devoid of noise and smell and temperature, designed like an
emotional sponge to suck all the passion out of the events the
investigators handled every day.

Kelsey's cubicle was not in a position of privilege.
He was next to the case files closet, close to the interrogation
rooms, within ear-pulling distance of Lieutenant Hernandez's office.

Kelsey stopped typing. He put his index finger on my
license, looked back and forth between it and the screen to make sure
he got everything right. His finger hesitated over my middle name.
"Tray?"

"Trace. You know — Spanish. Numero tres."

Kelsey grunted, hit RETURN. "Statement."

I went through what I'd seen yesterday during the
apprehension of Zeta Sanchez at Hector Mara's farm. I didn't mention
Kelsey's hesitation responding to Ana DeLeon's call for help. Kelsey
did not type in how I had punched him in the gut. We were fast
friends that way.

While Kelsey finished composing, I looked through the
big glass window of the commander's office. Lieutenant Hernandez was
having a deadly serious conversation with a well-dressed Anglo who
had the reddest hair and the whitest skin I'd ever seen.

"Who's the leprechaun?" I asked.

Kelsey followed my gaze. He thought for a second,
probably debating whether or not he had anything to lose by
answering. "Canright. ADA on rotation to homicide this week.
Lucky us."

I looked again through the window. Canright was
holding up gold-ringed hands and shaking them, like he was showing
the size of an imaginary fish. Hernandez leaned on the edge of his
desk, his hands pinched tightly under his armpits. The lieutenant's
face had its usual metallic hardness.

"So what's the argument?" I asked.

Kelsey pointed behind me with his chin. Down the side
corridor, I could just see the doorway of the first interrogation
room. An armed, uniformed deputy stood outside. The face of Ana
DeLeon passed briefly behind the tiny one-foot-square window —
mid-pace,  mid-conversation.

"Celebrity guest," Kelsey said. "Zeta
Sanchez stonewalled the ATF for twelve hours yesterday. Now DeLeon's
giving it a try. Guess Canright was expecting we'd have a confession
by now. We're holding up his political career."

At that moment, the commander's door flew open.
Canright stormed out, Hernandez right behind him. Their argument
re-formed around the doorway, five feet away from us.

Down the other way, the interrogation room door
opened too. Ana DeLeon led Zeta Sanchez out by the upper arm. The
surprised guard lurched into formation behind them.

DeLeon wore a khaki Lands' End trench coat over the
red dress she'd had on the night before. From her eyes and makeup and
hair it was clear she'd never gone to bed.

Sanchez was dressed in orange prison scrubs and
plastic sandals. His wrists were clamped together in plastic cuffs,
the kind they reserve for the most violent offenders. The side of his
face was swollen from DeLeon's pistol-whipping yesterday, and he
sported an even newer injury — a busted lower lip that was stitched
up and oozing on the left side like a bisected caterpillar. The
mustache and beard made a cursive W around his lower face, a shape
mirrored by his high hairline. His eyes were calm, sleepy. The
undamaged side of his mouth crept up in a little smile that made my
stomach go cold.

DeLeon walked him in our direction until Hernandez
and District Attorney Canright intercepted her, right in front of
Kelsey's desk. Kelsey and I stood up, making the walkway mighty cozy.

"Where are you going?" Canright demanded.

DeLeon raised her eyebrows. "The bathroom."

"The what?"

"He needs to pee, sir. You know — the little
boys' room?"

Canright's face erupted in strawberry spots. He
looked at Hernandez, whose expression stayed neutral. Zeta Sanchez,
for his part, had his eyes on DeLeon. He kept pushing the tip of his
tongue suggestively against the busted side of his lip.

"Detective—" Canright started.

"We're crossing our legs here, sir." DeLeon
looked at Hernandez for a green light. "My interview, my
suspect, and he really needs to pee. Okay, Lieutenant?"

After a moment of silent deliberation, Lieutenant
Hernandez gestured toward the exit.

"Thank you." DeLeon looked at me for the
first time, dispassionately, like I was an overdue stenographer.
"Walk with us."

ADA Canright's face turned even redder. "Wait
just a goddamn—"

DeLeon was already pushing past.

I was almost too surprised to move but fell in line
behind DeLeon and Sanchez and the deputy guard. The four of us went
out the reception area of homicide, past two secretaries and a group
of crying women, into the hallway. The outer corridors of the
department were tiled in green, fluorescent lit, with metal rolling
equipment carts abandoned here and there and windows looking into
dark rooms. It reminded me of a hospital delivery ward. We walked to
the end of the hall where the vending machines and rest-rooms were,
our heels clacking against the tiles.

When we got to the men's room door, DeLeon let loose
of Sanchez's arm. "Go ahead."

Sanchez looked from her to the door, calculating.

DeLeon asked, "You need one of the guys to help
you find it?"

Sanchez gave her a mildly surprised smile, as if the
insult pleased him. He went inside.

The deputy started to follow but DeLeon stopped him.
"That's okay."

The restroom door closed.

DeLeon leaned against the vending machine and let her
posture deteriorate, her weariness have its way. She rubbed her eyes,
then the back of her neck. Finally she focused her bloodshot eyes on
me. "Your job is to be silent."

"Not my best role."

"You visited the Brandons, didn't you? Saw that
little kid and his mom?"