The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan (2 page)

He frowned. "It's a
dit
."

Professor Mitchell sighed through his nose. "Gregory,
we're having a conference..."

DeLeon took off her gray blazer and folded it over
the top of her chair. Her bone-colored silk blouse was sleeveless,
her arms the color of French roast and smoothly muscled. Her side arm
was visible now — a tiny black Glock 23 in a leather Sam Browne
holster. When Gregory saw the gun, his mouth closed fully for the
first time in the conversation, maybe the first time in his life.

DeLeon said, "Dr. Navarre told you it was a
lai
,
Gregory. Were there any other questions?"

Gregory kept his mouth closed. He shifted his mail
bin around, looked at Professor Mitchell like he was expecting
protection, then at me. "Maybe I could check back tomorrow?"

"Good idea," I said. "And the mail?"

Gregory thought about it, checked out DeLeon's Glock
one more time, then dipped a beefy hand into the bin. He brought out
a rubber-banded stack of letters that probably represented two weeks
of withheld mail. He threw it on the desk and knocked over the
silver-framed photo of Brandon's family.

"Fine," Gregory said. "Package, too."

The package hit the table with a muffled clunk. It
was a manila bubble-wrap mailer, eleven by seventeen, dinged up and
glistening at both ends with scotch tape. It had a large red stamp
along the side that read INTRACAMPUS DELIVERIES ONLY.

While Professor Mitchell shooed Gregory out the door,
DeLeon and I were staring at the same thing — the plain white
address label on the mailing envelope, AARON BRANDON, HSS 3,11. No
street address or zip. No return. A computer-printed label, Chicago
12-point.

I remember locking eyes with DeLeon for maybe half a
second. After that it happened fast.

DeLeon put a hand on Professor Mitchell's shoulder
and calmly started to say, "Why don't we go—" when
something inside the package made a plasticky crick-crick-crick sound
like a soda bottle cap being twisted off.

DeLeon was smaller than Mitchell by maybe a hundred
pounds, but she had him wrestled to the floor on the count of two. I
should have followed her example.

Instead, I swept the package off the desk and into
the metal trash can. Nice plan if I'd been able to get to the floor
myself. But the trash can started toppling. First toward my face.
Then toward the window. Then it went off like a cannon.

In the first millisecond, even before the sound
registered, the force of the blast frosted a huge ragged oval in the
glass, then melted it in a cone of metal shards and yellow ribbon and
flames, ripping through the wall and the mesquite outside and
shredding the new leaves and branches into ticker tape.

I was on my butt in the opposite corner of the
office. My ankle was twisted in the walnut armrest of Aaron Brandon's
overturned chair and my ribs had slammed against a filing cabinet.
There was an upside-down pothos plant in my lap. Someone was pressing
a very large A-flat tuning fork to the base of my skull and my left
cheek felt wet and cold. I dabbed at the cheek with my fingers, felt
nothing, brought my fingers away, and saw that they glistened red.

Except for the tuning fork, the room was silent.
Leaves and pigeon feathers and pages from essays were twirling
aimlessly in the air, curlicuing in and out of the blasted wall.
There was a fine white smoke layering the room and a smell like
burning swimming-pool chemicals.

Slowly, DeLeon got to her feet. A single yellow
pothos leaf was stuck in her hair. She pulled Mitchell up by the
elbow.

Neither of them looked hurt. DeLeon examined the room
coolly, then looked at me, focusing on the side of my face.

"You're bleeding," she announced.

It sounded like she was talking through a can and
string, but I was relieved to register any sound at all. Then I heard
other things — voices in the plaza below, people yelling. A low,
hot sizzle from the remnants of the blasted garbage can. I staggered
to my feet, brushed the plant and the dirt off my lap, took a step
toward the window. No more pigeons on the ledge. The bottom of the
garbage can, the only part that wasn't shredded, had propelled itself
backward with such force that an inch of the base was embedded in the
side of the oak desk. Distressed voices were coming down the hall
now. Insistent knocks on neighboring doors.

Mitchell's eyelids stuck together when he blinked. He
shook his head and focused on me with great effort. "I don't —
I don't..."

DeLeon patted the old professor's shoulder, telling
him she thought he was going to be okay. Then she looked at me. "A
doctor for that cheek. What do you think?" I looked out the hole
somebody had just blasted in a perfect spring day. I said, "I
think I'll take the job."
 
 

TWO

The bomb-squad guys were a laugh a minute.

After barking orders to the campus uniforms and
kicking through the rubble in their storm trooper outfits, sniffing
the trash can and measuring lug nuts and screws and other metal
fragments that had embedded themselves several inches into the
concrete window frame, the squad decided it was safe to stand down.
They threw Gregory the mail boy into an office down the hall for
questioning by the FBI folks, though it was clear the poor kid knew
nothing about the bomb and was already rattled to tears at the
thought of his werewolf essay being blown to Valhalla. Then the squad
relaxed in the hallway with their Dr Peppers and let lesser
individuals take over the investigation.

"Same as that'n last year," one of the
storm troopers said. "You remember that kid?"

A blond guy with a sergeant's badge clipped to his
belt took a noisy pull on his soda. "Blew off three of his
fingers, didn't it?"

"Four, Sarge. Remember? We found one of them
later, under the bed."

They all laughed.

Another guy mentioned the lunatic they'd caught last
month trying to drop TNT-filled Ping-Pong balls off the Tower of the
Americas. He reminisced about how the perp would've blown a hole in
the sergeant's crotch except Sarge was such a good catch. Hilarious.

I was sitting in a student desk about thirty feet
down the hallway. I would've been happy to move farther away and
leave the squad to their fun, but there was a paramedic patching up
my face.

The narrow mustard-colored corridors of the
Humanities Building were overflowing with SAPD, campus police, ATF,
UTSA administrators. With everybody bustling around and the
bomb-squad guys hanging out in their flack suits, I had the distinct
feeling that I'd been dropped into the Beatles' yellow submarine
during a Blue Meenie invasion.

One of the bomb-squad guys glanced down the hall to
where Ana DeLeon stood talking with Lieutenant Jimmy Hernandez, the
SAPD homicide commander. "Always thought DeLeon'd be a blast."

Another said, "Dyke. Forget it, man."

The sergeant cupped his crotch. "Just hasn't met
the right kind of pipe bomb yet."

That got a few more guffaws.

DeLeon was a lot closer to them than I was, but she
gave no indication that she'd heard. Neither did the lieutenant.

An evidence tech came out of the blown-up office. He
went over to the bomb-squad sergeant and compared notes. I.E.D.
Improvised explosive device. A metal pipe joint packed with solid
oxygen compound and a few common household baking ingredients, some
nuts and bolts thrown in for extra nastiness, a nine-volt battery
wired to the package's flap — designed to break circuit when the
package was opened. Instead it had broken prematurely on impact with
the desk. The whole thing had probably cost thirty bucks to make.

"Gang-bangers," the sergeant told the
evidence tech. "Solidox — real popular with the homies. Simple
and cheap. Half the time they blow themselves up making it, which is
all right by me."

Detective DeLeon was still talking with Lieutenant
Hernandez. Another plainclothes detective came up behind them and
stood there silently, unhappily. He was about six-one, Anglo, well
dressed, looked like he ate rottweilers for breakfast.

DeLeon gestured in my direction.

Hernandez focused on me, recognized me with no
pleasure, then said something to the rottweiler-eater. All three of
them started down the hall.

"'Scuse me," DeLeon told the bomb squad.

A few riotous comments appeared to be dancing on
their lips until they noticed Hernandez and the big Anglo guy
flanking her. The squad managed to contain their humor.

When DeLeon reached my paramedic she asked, "How's
he doing?"

"I can talk," I promised.

DeLeon ignored me. The paramedic told her I'd be fine
with some painkillers and a few stitches and some rest. DeLeon did
not look overjoyed.

Lieutenant Hernandez stepped forward. "Navarre."

His handshake delivered about sixty pounds per square
inch into my knuckles.

Hernandez was a small oily man, hair like molded
aluminum sheeting. He did his clothes shopping in the Sears boys'
department and his wide brown tie hung down over his zipper. Despite
his compact size, the lieutenant had a reputation for hardness
matched only by that same quality in his hair.

He released my mangled hand. "Detective DeLeon
tells me you dunked the bomb. She says you did all right."

DeLeon was scribbling something on her notepad. When
she noticed me looking at her, her thin black eyebrows crept up a
quarter inch, her expression giving me a defiant What?

"Detective DeLeon is too generous with her
praise," I told Hernandez.

The big Anglo guy snorted.

Hernandez shot him a warning look. "DeLeon also
tells me you're considering the teaching position. May I ask why?"

A sudden pain ripped through my jaw. The EMT told me
to hold still. He dabbed some bandages onto my cheek. The sensation
was warm and numb and far away.

When I could move my mouth again I said, "Maybe
I resent being blown up."

Hernandez nodded. "But of course you're not
under any impression that taking this job might afford you a chance
at payback."

"Teaching well is the best revenge."

A smile flicked in the corner of Hernandez's mouth.
The Anglo guy behind him studied me like he was mentally placing me
in a bowl with the rottweilers and pouring milk on me.

"Besides," I continued, "I was assured
the case was already in good hands."

DeLeon's eyes met mine, cool and level. You almost
couldn't tell she'd just been through an explosion. Her makeup had
been perfectly reapplied, her hair reformed into severe black wedges,
not a glossy strand out of place. The only visible damage to her
ensemble was a two-inch triangular slit ripped in the shoulder of her
pearl-gray blazer.

"This incident changes nothing, Mr. Navarre."

The big Anglo said, "Should fucking well change
who's in charge."

Hernandez turned toward him and held up one finger,
like he was going to tap the big guy on the chin.

"We are in charge, Kelsey. We as in a team. We
as in — you got problems with the way I make duty assignments, file
a complaint. In the meantime" — he waved at DeLeon —
"whatever she says."

DeLeon didn't skip a beat. "Get with Special
Agent Jacobs. Cooperate — whatever she wants on the bombing. Help
canvass, get statements from everybody who's handled packages on
campus, negative statements from everybody who hasn't. I want timing
on the delivery of the package correlated to the time of the
shooting. I also want statements from every student in every class
Brandon has taught this semester."

Kelsey grunted. "The Feds'll take a pass. You
know goddamn well—"

Hernandez said, "Kelsey."

"So I'm just supposed to piddle with busywork
while we let that scumbag Sanchez sit out there?"

"Kelsey," Hernandez repeated.

Kelsey's eyes were locked on DeLeon's.

Lieutenant Hernandez's voice broke in as soft and
sharp as asbestos. "Are you capable of acting as secondary on
this case, Detective?"

After three very long seconds, Kelsey reached into
his shirt pocket, took out a ballpoint pen, held it up for DeLeon to
see, and clicked it. Then he turned and left.

"One big happy," I noted.

Hernandez's aluminum hair glittered as he turned
toward me. "While I'm in charge, Navarre, you can depend on it.
You need to speak to anyone concerning the Brandon homicide, you will
speak to Detective DeLeon. My advice, however — teach your classes,
stay safe, and stay out of her way."

"Two pigeons and a lot of fine essays died in
that blast."

Hernandez sighed. "Let's do a story, Navarre.
Let's talk about a time one of my top people advised me to — say —
de-prioritize a lead."

Hernandez stared at me until I supplied a name. "Gene
Schaeffer?"

Hernandez nodded almost imperceptibly, then looked at
DeLeon. "There was an aggravated assault case about the time you
transferred out to sex crimes, Detective. Local crackhead had been
terrorizing a neighborhood of senior citizens over by Jefferson.
Everybody knew who was doing it, nobody would testify. Along toward
Christmas, this crackhead got a little too excited, beat an old lady
almost to death. Again, nobody would testify, nobody saw anything.
Then, a week later, said crackhead is found with two broken arms,
hanging duct-taped upside down from a railroad crossing gate on
Zarzamora. He's about half dead, eyes pounded so bad he looks like a
raccoon. We cut him down. He gives a full confession for the assault
on the old lady, says please will we put him in jail and let him give
some money to the victim's family. Real heartwarming. He also refuses
to ID his attacker, so we know we got a vigilante out there. A couple
of interesting names came up in the case. Some Christmas cards and
goodies from that neighborhood got mailed to an interesting address
on Queen Anne Street — jam, preserves, fruitcakes."