Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(77)

Hass smiled like he got it. We made ourselves at home in King Louie’s loveseat while Schaeffer sent a uniform downstairs for a garlic bagel and some herbal tea.

"Red Zinger if they’ve got it," he said.

I stared at him.

"What?" he said. "You want some?"

I quickly declined.

Schaeffer made that snoring sound again and it finally occurred to me why he always looked and sounded half-asleep. It was terminal sinuses.

“Cedars?" I asked.

His nasal passages ground like ball bearings. "Damn pecan trees. That yellow stuff gets all over my yard. I forget breathing for three months. It’s a healthy lifestyle. "

"Now, Detective," Hass started, "if we could just—"

Schaeffer looked at him and he shut up. Schaeffer liked that.

"This guy from Ash?" he asked Maia.

Maia nodded. She tried not to smile. Schaeffer liked it even more. After that, Hass participated about as much as a tennis spectator. I had the feeling he would’ve held Schaeffer’s handkerchief for him if asked.

"Okay," Schaeffer said, "let’s hear it."

So we told him, sort of. I did a bad job feigning surprise when Schaeffer told me that Terry Garza, the man I’d been arguing with when Moraga’s corpse was delivered through the wall of Sheff’s office, had also been killed. I told him about the anonymous note we’d gotten to come to the Hilton and how I’d chased a guy from the room who I couldn’t ID. Maia described how she’d found the body. I told Schaeffer I hadn’t fired a gun since I was a kid and certainly not at Beau Karnau’s head this evening. Maia asked if we were being charged with something.

Schaeffer explored his nostrils with his handkerchief one more time.

"How about stupidity, " he suggested.

"Too late," Maia said. "My client’s nolo contendere."

"Your client?" objected Hass.

“Shut up, " we all said.

The uniform came back with Schaeffer’s tea and bagel.

"All they had was Sleepy Time," he reported.

I thought Schaeffer would demote him on the spot, but he just stared into his tea and sighed. Now he really did look tired.

"So let’s run through this, " he said. "A week ago you ask me to check into confidential files. You’ve suddenly discovered your father has been murdered, ten years ago. CID’s on my butt inside five minutes for even fielding your call. Then we’ve got three homicides in the space of three days, and you just happen to be around for all the fun."

"Two thirds of it," I objected without much conviction.

"Yeah," Schaeffer grunted. "So there’s absolutely no connection. I should just take some more Sudafed, crawl into bed, and not worry about it, huh?"

Maia and I glanced at each other. My nerves must’ve been more shot than I figured. I was close to leveling with Schaeffer.

"Listen, Detective—" Then my mind stopped and rewound what I’d just heard. I changed my tack.

"When you said CID, you mean Rivas? As in the creep who showed up at your investigation that night at Sheff’ s offices?"

Schaeffer scowled.

"As in the Cambridge disappearance?" Maia added.

"As in Lillian Cambridge," I said, "the present stiff’s studio partner?"

Schaeffer wadded up his handkerchief while he thought about that. Whatever he concluded, he didn’t let it show in his face.

"That doesn’t matter," he said. His look said the opposite. “What I want—"

Whatever he wanted, he was distracted when Jay Rivas walked into the room. Rivas sported a newly combed mustache and a silver and turquoise belt buckle the size of a grapefruit.

“Navarre," he said. “Back again. Just like a f**king yo-yo."

Rivas was in a good mood tonight; you could hear it in his voice. After he lit a cigar, over the protests of the forensics crew, he studied everybody in the room, finally nodding to Schaeffer.

"Can I help you, Detective?" Schaeffer said, without enthusiasm.

Rivas came up to me and stuck his face in mine, like I was some kind of weird exhibit. His wandering eye drifted merrily downstream. Then he sat on the arm of the loveseat directly above Maia and put his hand on her shoulder.

Maia didn’t flinch. Her eyes examined Rivas’s hand clinically, like she was locating all its breakable bones and pain-inducing pressure points. Rivas shifted, a little uncomfortably. The hand moved.

"Detective," Rivas said to Schaeffer, “could I get a few minutes with Mr. Navarre and his friend?"

Schaeffer stared at Rivas, then at me. Maybe he remembered what my mouth had looked like after I accidentally hit it on the door last time Rivas wanted a few minutes, that night at Sheff Construction. Or maybe Schaeffer was just pissed off because his sinuses felt like a worn-out transmission and the Hilton was out of Red Zinger. Whatever it was, he made a decision.

"I got a better idea," he told Rivas. "You could explain what you’re doing in my homicide investigations. All my homicide investigations?

Rivas glanced at his audience. When he spoke to Schaeffer again, it was much more polite. And much colder.

“Maybe we could discuss this outside," he said.

“That’s a good idea," Schaeffer said. "You go ahead. I’ll be out as soon as I send these people home."