The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan

by Rick Riordan

  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."

  "Jellied fruits," I added.

  "Jellied fruits," Hernandez agreed. He clamped a very strong hand on my shoulder and didn't seem to mind at all that he was stopping my blood flow. "So what I'm saying here, Mr. Navarre, is, things change. Friends move on, the paperwork keeps coming across my desk, favors get depleted, my patience gets thin. You understanding me here?"

  "Clear as Cuervo," I promised.

  "Outstanding. I hope the rest of the semester goes well for you, Professor."

  Hernandez gave my shoulder one more crush, nodded to DeLeon, and went to see about the media who were gathering outside the police tape by the elevator. The other way down the hall, the bomb squad was still hanging out, drinking Dr Peppers, talking about the length of their respective pipe bombs and TNT Ping-Pong balls and occasionally weaving in references to DeLeon's legs and her probable lingerie preferences.

  "First case?" I asked her.

  It took DeLeon a few seconds to focus on me. "I wor
ked agg. assault for a year, Mr. Navarre. Sex crimes for two. I've seen plenty."

  "First time primary on a homicide?"

  Her jaw tightened.

  "Hell of a case to cut your teeth on," I agreed.

  "Don't patronize me."

  I held up my hands. Even that much movement made the soreness in my left arm flare. "Kelsey seems pretty sure the Feds will take a pass."

  She stared down the hallway. "Like I said, Mr. Navarre, you've got no special privileges."

  "He mentioned somebody named Sanchez. Who would that be?"

  DeLeon almost smiled, thought better of it. "I'll see you around, Mr. Navarre."

  The paramedic got up, began packing his kit, and said he should be getting me to the hospital. DeLeon nodded.

  She turned toward the bomb-squad guys, who were still leering at her, then took something from her blazer.

  She hefted the thing in her hand for a split second — long enough for the bomb squad to register what it was and notice that its weight was too heavy, but not long enough for them to rationalize that DeLeon wasn't really that insane. I'll be damned if I know where she got the Ping-Pong ball, or what she'd filled it with. Maybe she'd lifted it from the student rec center when she went to wash up. Maybe she'd been carrying it in her pocket for months for just such an occasion. Police are nothing if not resourceful.

  DeLeon said, "Hey, Hills, catch."

  Then she did a fast underhand pitch at the chest of the blond sergeant. You've never seen a bomb squad scatter with so little room to maneuver and so much Dr Pepper spraying into the air. The Ping-Pong ball hit Sergeant Hills in the chest and bounced harmlessly to the floor.

  Hills' face went the color of chalk dust as he looked up at DeLeon. "You crazy fucking bitch."

  His fingers splayed open. A large Dr Pepper stain was seeping into his crotch and down his left thigh.

  DeLeon responded so softly you almost had to read her lips. She said, "Boom."

  Then she turned and walked steadily down the hall, toward the news camera lights.

  THREE

  By the time I got to Erainya Manos' office, the codeine Tylenol from the Methodist Hospital was working fine. My face had softened to the consistency of tofu and I could only feel my feet because in my VW convertible, I can feel everything.

  I pulled into the strip mall on Blanco and 410 and found the nearest empty space, thirty yards down from Erainya's office. The agency itself is never busy, but it's wedged between a Greek restaurant and a leather furniture outlet that both draw good crowds.

  On the office door, stenciled letters read:

  THE ERAINYA MANOS AGENCY YOUR FULL-SERVICE GREEK DETECTIVE

  Inside, George Berton was sitting at his desk. Kelly Arguello was sitting at mine, reading Spin magazine. Between them, blocking the aisle that led back to his mother's command center, Jem Manos was kneeling on the floor, constructing a monstrous triple-decker windmill out of Tinkertoys.

  As I walked in, Kelly and George gave me a standing ovation. The phone started ringing.

  Behind the huge desk at the back of the office, Erainya said, "Can we answer that?"

  From the higher pitch I could tell it was the alternate number, the one Erainya calls her "dupe" line.

  As it rang a second time, Jem ran up and grabbed my fingers and told me he was glad I hadn't exploded. He tugged me toward his windmill.

  Kelly and George started barraging me with questions.

  When the phone rang a third time, Erainya stood and yelled at us across the room. "What — you people can't hear?"

  Everyone fell silent. Kelly went back to my desk. George went to his and checked the Caller ID display. Jem pulled me toward his Tinkertoys.

  On the fourth ring, George waved to Erainya, warmed up his fingers, then picked up the receiver with a flourish. "Pro Fidelity Credit — Collections — Samuelson."

  He listened, looked up at me, winked. "Yes, that is correct."

  George leaned back. Two wide vertical stripes ran down his golf shirt and made his flat upper body look like a bike lane. He nudged his Panama hat farther up his forehead.

  I'd developed this theory about Berton — the white leather shoes, pencil mustache, Panama hat, Bryl-ed hair. I suspected George only worked at the turn of the twenty-first century. Each evening he secretly teleported back home to 1962.

  "Yes," he continued. "We can verify that. Let me transfer you to Mrs. Donovan."

  He punched a button, held up a finger.

  Erainya said, "Go, already."

  The phone on her desk rang. Erainya answered in a voice that sounded ten years younger and half as testy. "Donovan. Yes, Mr. LaFlore. I have it right here. Yes. We were interested in seeing if he'd been the same sort of problem for you. Frankly, we're considering a lien."

  She then sat back and proceeded to get some poor schmuck's credit history. Jem whispered to me about his Tinkertoys. Apparently I'd been wrong about them being a windmill. He was trying for a perpetual motion engine.

  "Where'd you learn that?" I demanded.

  Jem grinned up at me. Erainya hadn't cut his hair in a month, so his silky black bangs hung in his eyes like a Muppet's.

  "Secret," he said.

  Jem is advanced for a five-year-old. Erainya thinks he'll do great next fall in kindergarten. I think he'd do great next fall at MIT if they had a better playground.

  George logged in some paperwork. I sat on the edge of my desk and looked at Kelly Arguello. She'd gone back to reading her Spin. Her hair was purple-tinted this week, tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing white denim cutoffs and white Adidas with ankle socks and an extra-large black T-shirt that read LIBERTY LUNCH in reggae colors.

  Kelly never dresses to show off, but you can't help noticing her swimmer's figure. Even in an oversized shirt and old cutoffs, she has the kind of smoothly muscled body that George, a shamelessly dirty old man, likes to call "Padre Island Spring Break contest-winning material."

  Kelly looked over the top of her magazine at me. Her eyes are beer-bottle brown. She focused on my stitched cheek, then wrinkled her nose. "You smell like you're still on fire."

  Berton laughed as loudly as he dared. Any more volume and Erainya would've thrown a crisscross directory at his head. I speak from experience. "Always nice to have your coworkers' sympathies."

  "We're glad you're okay," George assured me. "Tell us about it."

  I told them about the bomb, about Detective DeLeon, and about my decision to accept the UTSA job.

  "Instead of P.I. work?" Kelly asked.

  "In addition to. Erainya seems to think I can make her money at two jobs now."

  " Professor Tres ?"

  "Be nice to me, impudent one. Soon I will have access to grades for the entire UT system." I did the mad scientist finger-wiggle in her face.

  She said, "Bullshit."

  Law students. No sense of fear.

  Kelly had been taking classes up at UT Austin this semester on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays she'd been driving down to San Antonio to help at Erainya's office. My bright idea. UT was giving her credit for it — legal-related fieldwork.

  It wouldn't have been a bad arrangement except Kelly's Uncle Ralph thought I was doing him a favor by being Kelly's big brother. Uncle Ralph has a variety of sawed-off double-barrel weapons that I try not to get on the receiving end of. Kelly, for her part, doesn't always buy into the "big brother" scenario.

  Back at her desk, Erainya was still playing Ms. Donovan, bemoaning the state of the personal-insurance industry with some cherished colleague.

  "I know," Erainya consoled. "They might as well rob us at gunpoint."

  "Gunpoint," George Berton whispered. "That's good."

  Erainya glared over at Berton, twisted her fingers upward in a gesture I could only assume had highly negative connotations in Greece.

  George grinned, looked back at me. "She's sending me after your terrorist, you know."

  "Terrorist?"

  "Whoever.
Your death-threat writer. Should be fun."

  I studied him to see if he was serious, if he felt at all nervous about tracking down someone who pipe-bombed offices and shot holes in English professors. George had dealt with worse, I knew. He'd done a couple of tours with the Air Force Special Police in Saudi Arabia in the eighties. During the Gulf War he'd been standing just outside the bunker in Bahrain when an Iraqi missile blew it to hell. After Berton returned stateside and tested for his P.I. license, his wife had been killed in some kind of camping accident, leaving George ownership of her small title company and a rather sizable life insurance policy. For the past seven years, George had worked investigations only when he felt like it — usually for Erainya, tracking down skips on the West Side when it was clear Erainya and I couldn't get to them ourselves.

  In San Antonio, that happened a lot. Anglo investigators could go through the Latino side of town, offering reward money for locating an heir to a big estate, and they'd come up with nothing. Flip it around — a Latino working the white neighborhoods, same thing. You do P.I. work in S.A., you learn quickly you'd better have a partner on the other side. George Berton was one of the best.

  "You know where you'll start?" I asked him.

  "Activists, radicals. I can find some. They usually come out from California, stay for a while spouting the La Raza stuff. Then they figure out South Texas isn't L.A. and they go home."

  "You know anybody named Sanchez?"

  "This is San Antonio, man. I know seven thousand anybodies named Sanchez.

  Why?"

  "SAPD let that name drop."

  Berton shrugged. "I'll ask Erainya. She's been making some calls to the police."

  "You worried about this at all?"

  "Oh, yeah. You know the last time the FBI had something to do in San Antonio besides polish their sunglasses? They're going to love this. Even if I find this guy first, I won't have time to submit one report before the Feds come in busting heads. UTSA doesn't have much to worry about, Tres. They want to pay us to duplicate efforts, that's fine by me."

  "SAPD seems to think the Feds will take a pass."

  George laughed.

  "That's what they said," I insisted.

  George waved the comment away. "Give me a break, Navarre."