Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(66)

"That’s it?"

He exploded. “God damn it. You better believe the FBI will be in this sooner or later. When that happens they’ll take one look at the way you’ve screwed up the scene, and your ass will be flying at half-mast on the Feds’ flagpole. Then I won’t be able to do anything for you."

As we stared at each other, the ice cream truck trolled by outside. Since last week, its version of "La Bamba” had worn down a few octaves to a funeral march.

"And what about Rivas’s investigation on Lillian? What about the homicides?"

Drapiewski slowly brushed the pink sugar off his hands. "Let’s just say it would be damned unusual for me to ask SAPD straight out without a reason."

We sat there at an impasse until Maia decided to help. She rested her hand on Larry’s knee and smiled sadly, earnestly. "Could you find a reason, Lieutenant?"

Larry shifted uncomfortably, mumbling something to himself. He looked down at Maia’s hand. His expression broke.

"Aw shit," he said. "Friday I’m doing some off-duty security work with a buddy of mine from CID. Maybe we could talk."

Maia’s smile to Drapiewski was probably worth it. I was too busy watching the linoleum in the kitchen.

"And if Friday’s too late?" I asked.

Larry stood up. His hand on my shoulder felt like warm lead.

“Get your ass downtown, Tres. Before Friday. And stay the hell away from Guy White."

We were silent.

"Damn it, son," he said. “There’s nothing else I can do."

"You got any connections with the Blanco Sheriff’s Department?" I asked. "Randa1l Halcomb was killed out there. I’d like to know more about the scene."

Larry frowned.

"We could go out there alone . . ." I said, glancing at Maia.

"All right," Larry grumbled. "I’m off at noon. I’ll pick you up then, long as you do me two favors."

I gave him my winningest smile. “Anything for you."

"Stay put," he said.

“And?"

"Stop reminding me of your goddamn father."

40

I was hoping Drapiewski would settle for one out of three. We didn’t stay put and we didn’t stay the hell away from Guy White.

My first mistake was trying to get through Brackenridge Park on a Sunday morning. The minute we turned onto Mulberry we were stuck in a line of station wagons and low-rider Chevies, heavily pinstriped pickup trucks with sunbathers sprawled out in the cabs. Since we weren’t moving anywhere, drivers in opposite lanes carried on conversations in Spanish, exchanged beers and cigarettes, flirted shamelessly with the passengers who were invariably girls with red hair and tight black tube tops, even tighter cutoffs. The smell of barbacoa and hamburger smoke drifted through the trees as thick as fog. Picnic spots had been staked out as early as the night before along the riverbanks, so as near as I could tell the people in the cars just cruised in very slow circles, eating their Sunday lunch while they drove. Maia got several propositions and enough whistles to fill an aviary. Nobody whistled at me.

Since there was nothing else to do, I pointed out the miniature railroad tracks, the rent-a-pony stables, the place where the Great Brackenridge Train Robbery had taken place.

Maia looked at me for a translation. "The what?"

"My dad’s claim to law enforcement fame," I told her. "A group of basic trainees from Lackland got let loose on Day 25, drank some beer, decided to steal a few ponies and play Jesse James. They put bandannas on their faces, laid this dead tree across the tracks, then hid in the woods and waited for the kiddie train to come by. Robbed it at gunpoint and made a getaway."

"Charming," said Maia.

I held up my hand. "There’s more. My dad was a deputy at the time. Now that I think about it, that afternoon’s the only occasion I remember him being off-duty and sober at the same time. I think he was taking me to the zoo. When he spotted the robbery he told me to stay put. A local station got some great footage of him, all three hundred pounds, waving his shotgun like he was judge Roy Bean and lumbering after this group of drunk pinheads on ponies. Afterward he got drunk and gave the media a dy***ite interview about bringing law to the Wild West. The next year they elected him sheriff."

"The media?"

“Basically," I said.

Maia nodded. I think she was staring at me to find my father’s genetic code, trying to decide whether chasing pony-mounted bandits with a shotgun was a dominant or recessive trait. Whatever she concluded, she kept it to herself.

We finally made it into Olmos Park and turned onto Crescent. When we pulled in front of the White House, we found that Mr. White had been renovating. He’d had a presidential fountain installed in his front yard, and three workers in sweaty denim were busy digging trenches and laying down copper pipes, trying to finish the plumbing. White had also installed a three-hundred-pound Hispanic linebacker at the front door.

The new doorman looked at us with a confused expression as we walked across the lawn.

"Howdy," I told him.

His head sloped straight down into his shoulders like a lamp shade. His features were so flat they almost looked smeared. The only things that added any contour to his face were his hair and his sunglasses—both were huge, shiny, and black. He looked like he had once tried to listen to a calculus lecture and had never quite gotten over it. His eyebrows were drawn together, his mouth frowning, open.