Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(65)

I rubbed my eyes. "We need to know about Guy White. Whether the mob’s really in this, or whether it’s just convenient for somebody to make it look that way. We need to know what the police have on Garza’s murder, and Moraga."

"And Lillian, " said Maia quietly.

I stared out at the crape myrtles. Maia came closer. She put her hands lightly on my shoulders.

"First, you need to eat something," she said. "Then we’ll see about the police."

I rubbed my eyes again, pondering how to make breakfast from one beer and some baking soda. Thinking about my empty refrigerator led me to thinking about Larry Drapiewski’s card sitting in my medicine cabinet.

I looked at the time—9:00. Almost a civilized hour. If I made it sound urgent enough, he could be here in under thirty minutes, but only if I was prepared to discuss police matters in the serious businesslike manner to which he was accustomed. Which meant only one thing.

I peeled a few fifties off Beau Karnau’s stack.

“First," I told Maia, "we go grocery shopping."

39

I wasn’t sure whether Pappy Delgado was glad to see me or just happy to meet Maia. I harbored illusions that the old grocer took an interest in my well-being. It was probably closer to the truth that he took an interest in Maia’s white culottes and brown legs. Whichever, it was a slow morning in his little pink Christmas—lighted store, and Pappy decided to give us a guided tour of the produce aisle. On the way he helped me correct my Californian Espanol so I sounded more like a Tejano than a Cuban. Sandia instead of patia for watermelon agua fresca. Forget guinea for banana. He seemed endlessly amused to be schooling the gringo. Finally, while Maia was picking out avocados, Pappy nodded his huge nose her way and grinned at me.

"Y la chica?" he whispered.

I told him he was a dirty old man. He just grinned and told me he bathed daily, preferably not alone.

I called Drapiewski from the pay phone at the corner of New Braunfels and Eleanor and told him we had things to talk about and pan dulce to eat. He grudgingly agreed to come over.

"You want to give me some context here, Navarre? What’s the problem?"

“Heard about the murder at Sheff Construction? You guys had some deputies on the scene, I remember."

He was silent.

"Okay, how about Terry Garza dead on Austin Highway? We called it in anonymously last night."

He was still silent.

"Can I take that as a yes?" I asked.

"Holy hell," Drapiewski said. Then he hung up on me. Back at Queen Anne, I heated up the pan dulce Pappy’s wife had made in the back of the shop that morning and added a little butter and cinnamon. By the time they were out of the oven, Drapiewski was at the door. He wasn’t in a jovial mood.

Before he said anything he took a fistful of pan dulce and sat on the futon. On impact, it sank a few feet into the foundation. Robert Johnson was flushed out from underneath and belly-crawled all the way to the closet.

"All right," said Drapiewski. "Now what the f**k is this about homicides?"

Then Maia came out of the bathroom. Larry turned redder than he already was and pulled off his hat. He started to get up.

“Sorry," he said. "Didn’t know you had company."

Maia smiled and motioned him to stay seated.

"That’s all right, Lieutenant. I’m enchanted—I didn’t know anyone apologized for saying ‘f*ck’ anymore."

"Ah—" Larry said.

Maia laughed, then introduced herself. One hand shake and Larry was in love. He grinned cinnamon and butter. He tried to make room on the futon for her and just about goosed himself with his nightstick. Since he’d totally forgotten he was supposed to be pissed at me, I decided to help him out. "Homicide, Larry? You were saying?"

He tried to scowl at me. Maybe it was for Maia’s benefit.

"I checked the telex on Garza a few minutes ago. Nothing’s even been posted yet."

Maia sat back as much as she could on the two inches of the futon not occupied by Drapiewski’s body.

“Is that unusual?"

"What’s unusual is that I hear about it from your friend here first." His eyes bored into me with all the accusatory power of a faithful hound dog I’d just kicked.

"I also followed up on Karnau this morning—had one of my deputies swing by his apartment, then his studio. They were both empty, like Karnau’s left town."

Maia and I looked at each other. Larry waited.

“So you want to tell me?" he asked.

I told him. By the time I got to last night’s soiree in Terry Garza’s trailer, Drapiewski didn’t look too happy. When I’d finished he put his hands together like he was praying and pointed them at me.

“You walked out on a murder scene after removing evidence."

"That’s one interpretation," I admitted.

"And the only solid evidence you have about this construction scam you obtained during a B & E at Sheff’s offices, which pretty much ruins it for the courts."

I nodded.

Larry’s huge red eyebrows came together. He exhaled.

“Son, you probably just ruined the best chance we’d ever have to string Guy White up by his balls for murdering your dad. I would’ve given anything, anytime in the last ten years for that chance and you just—" He stopped, collected himself. I could tell he was counting silently. "All right, let’s say you broached this whole thing as a hypothetical. Okay, fine. I’m not obliged to follow up. But here’s my hypothetical advice: Get your ass down to SAPD and cooperate like hell."