Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(90)

“And by Friday when the Feds are into it anyway?"

"I’ll have to make it work by then."

Schaeffer almost laughed.

“What exactly are you expecting to make work, Navarre? From all I can see you’ve been making about as much progress as a pinball. You going to solve this by getting bashed back and forth a few more times?"

“You’d be surprised," I said.

“I’d be very surprised."

He stared at me for a minute longer. I tried to do my winning smile. Finally he shook his head.

"All right. The corpse that got driven through Sheff”s office wall, Eddie Moraga—we traced the Thunderbird exactly nowhere. Switched plates, the engine block number placed it as stolen from Kingsville. It doesn’t get any more nowhere than that."

“A big stop off for the coc**ne trade. Might connect it to White."

“Maybe," Schaeffer said, but he didn’t like the tie-in.

“The fatal shot was through Moraga’s heart, close range, angled down, like he was sitting and the killer was standing right over him. The bullets in the eyes happened postmortem. Weapon was a 9mm Parabellum."

“Glock, maybe?"

He shrugged. "Looks professional. Everything wiped clean. Moraga probably knew the guy who killed him, never even saw it coming."

"If it was a professional job—"

“It means Moraga really pissed somebody off, up close and personal. This bullet-through-the-eye shit--you have to screw up pretty bad to rate that."

"But you still don’t like it. "

He twisted the edge of his napkin. "It’s too showy. The methods, yeah, professional. But these guys—they’re like f**king actors."

"Like somebody imitating what they think a mob killing would be."

He didn’t like that idea either, but he didn’t offer another.

“Garza?" I asked.

"The trailer he rented six months ago. Wife and kids live in Olmos Park, knew nothing about it. He was killed on the scene, sometime that morning, probably around ten."

"Right after I talked to him on the phone."

"Looks that way. Garza was sitting down when he got stabbed, and he was drugged. Heavy valium in his system, couldn’t put up much of a fight. You saw the blood. Slice the artery and it was over. Same problem--looks professional, too flashy."

"Karnau?"

“Not the same. Not a very smart killer, and definitely not a pro. Near as we can tell Kamau just opened the door, bought it instantly, then got displayed. Different M.O.; I’d bet money it’s a different killer from Garza and Moraga."

"But the display?"

Schaeffer shook his head. “Kamau was laid out neatly, like he was sleeping. They didn’t want a mess. Usually means your killer wants to convince himself nothing happened here. It’s like—‘I’ll just comb the dead guy’s hair, tuck him into bed, wash my hands, and everything’s normal.’"

I thought about Dan Sheff, what he’d said about wanting to hold the wound closed on Karnau’s head.

“You said the killer wasn’t too smart."

"Stupid choice of guns. Very clear striations from ballistics. A pretty rare little .22 this guy used."

“A Sheridan Knockabout," I said.

“How the hell did you know that?"

I told him about the deer blind in Blanco. Schaeffer thought about it, then nodded.

“Top of the class, Navarre."

I watched the coroner’s car arrive. Then two more squads. On the porch next door, the neighbors were sharing coffee. Somebody had brought binoculars. In a minute they’d start serving appetizers.

I got up. The sunlight on my skin was just starting to burn off the itchy feeling I’d picked up in Mrs. Gutierrez’s house. A couple of stiff drinks and I might even forget her body in the bathtub long enough to think about a few other dead people. I looked across at the turquoise house that was just being taped off.

“I don’t know how you handle it every day," I told Schaeffer; "My dad hardly ever talked about it. All those bodies on the highways, hunting accidents, bar fights."

Schaeffer blew his nose. He looked at me for a minute like he might even smile. Maybe he was going to gift me his napkin. Fortunately he only offered me a ride in the queasy beat cop’s squad car back to my VW. “I didn’t know your dad," Schaeffer said. "I do know he was in the field a lot. He got shit for it too."

I nodded.

"He a drinker?" asked Schaeffer. "Religious?"

“Drinker."

Schaeffer looked at me like he was remembering every family argument the Navarres had ever had, like he’d been right there with me.

"Usually one or the other. Next time you think about him, Navarre, think about twelve or thirteen Mrs. Gutierrezes a year, maybe a few worse. See if you wouldn’t rather drink it away than tell your kids about it."

We walked back over to the house. The beat cop joined us, looking almost flesh-colored again. He told me sourly that he was ready to go.

“And you?" I asked Schaeffer. “You religious?"

He shook his head. "I just talk to them."

I looked to see if it was a joke. "Who—the corpses?"