The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(25)

"One tour, spent mostly at Lackland. Decided against reenlisting and went to college instead."

"I'll be damned." He looked at me, amazed.

"They have women at Lackland these days," I confirmed. "I've seen pictures."

He blew air, looked back at DeLeon. "Well, princess, don't cry for missing SP. Damn near killed me, that job. A lot of my friends got out and went straight into civilian police work, you know, because it's all they could do. Not me. Way I see it, to survive in police work you've got to have some kind of overactive testosterone problem."

Jenny was silently moving her lips as if she were trying to jump-start her voice to break in.

"Damn good quesadillas," I said. "Anybody want some?"

Jenny yelped, "Yeah!" a little louder than she needed to.

DeLeon told George: "Go on."

George shook his head. "Most of the cops me and Tres have met on the job — back me up here, Tres—"

I smiled at him, then at DeLeon, who smiled back.

"—most of the cops get high on the authority thing, the boots and the sunglasses, you know? The detectives are even worse — complete hot-shit complex. They treat P.I.s like dirt. Am I right, Tres?"

DeLeon looked at me, rapt with attention. I took a bite of borracho beans and mumbled, "Yum."

"Really," she said to George. Her beeper went off. She checked the number and said, "Geez."

"What?" George wanted to know.

DeLeon smiled. "It's my work."

"At this time of night?"

She laughed with all the warmth of" rattling aluminum foil. "Well, it isn't P.I. work, George, but it does keep me busy. I've been sort of waiting for word that I could get to this one particular witness, and they just gave me the 'come on in' signal. I should really—"

Berton's fork had dropped slowly to his plate. "Witness?"

Jenny chewed her lip nervously.

DeLeon reached over and patted George's hand. "I hate to cut out, but I should catch a taxi. You remember how it is, George, you get an arrest case and the clock starts ticking for the indictment."

"You're a—"

"Cop, honey. Homicide detective. The hot-shit variety."

"Oh, hey, I didn't—"

She smiled. "Not a problem, George. I sympathize. Really, we should do this some other time. It's been great, and really—" She slid her plate over. "You guys have some chile relleno. Looks terrific."

She gave Jenny a silent, unequivocal order with her eyes, a we need to talk command that made Jenny grab her purse before she even knew she'd done it. "Oh — you shouldn't go alone, I guess," Jenny gabbled. Then to me, "Maybe I should — I could just take a rain check or — you know?"

"Sure," I said.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

'I'll—"

Jenny wavered, looking at me apologetically, then saw something she hadn't expected, the beginnings of a smile I'd been trying to suppress.

Her face got a little colder. "Well — maybe another time."

George and I stood and mumbled sureties that we'd all be sitting around the table again real soon, and then the women left to catch their taxi. Rod "the Rod" Rodriguez oozed into the mambo version of "The Long and Winding Road."

George deflated into his seat. I sat next to him and started laughing.

"What the hell are you so cheerful about?" George snarled. "You knew who she was, didn't you?"

"The food is really good," I told him. "Isn't it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, already!"

I grinned, then waved down the waitress and told her to bring two more margaritas for the bachelor master detectives.

TWELVE

After dropping off George that night, I should've gone straight home to bed. Of course I didn't.

The abbreviated dinner date had left me wired. My mind was still spinning from getting nearly blown up and shot at and gainfully employed all in one day. Most of all, I'd allowed myself to slip into case mode. Too many years of missing-persons traces, peripheral work on homicides — training myself to work in forty-eight-hour sprints before the statistical window of success slammed shut in my face.

I decided to swing by Erainya's, see if she was awake. Just for a minute, I told myself. Just to get back in her good graces and promise to be a good little teacher from now on.

That plan changed as soon as I pulled in front of Erainya's house. Her door opened instantly. Erainya stomped down her front steps with Jem in tow and an armful of gear. She was wearing her commando clothes — black drawstring pants, long-sleeved T-shirt, black sneakers. With her black hair, in the dark, she looked like a pale, floating, pissed-off face. Jem was wearing scarlet Rugrats pajamas and new white Reeboks only slightly brighter than his smile.

Erainya let Jem into the backseat of the VW, then lowered herself and her stuff into the passenger's side and slammed the door. "Shoot me if I ever let you out of my sight again."

"Look, about Ozzie Gerson—"

"You ain't been home making lesson plans, honey."