The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(31)

The brothers Del and Aaron looked strikingly similar to each other but hardly like Dad at all. None of the three men looked particularly happy.

Under the photo was a Xerox copy of an article from a Texas business journal, dated three years ago. The story announced that a settlement had been reached between the IRS and a drill-bit manufacturing company in the Permian Basin. An insider at the company had tipped IRS investigators about cash transactions the company owner was conducting with wildcatters. A sting operation had been launched. Once caught, the owner had bargained his way out of jail time for tax evasion by agreeing to massive fines and relinquishing control of the company to a board of directors made up of other family members.

I read the article again. I looked at the photo.

When knuckles rapped on the door, I closed the folder and set it aside.

"Tres?"

Professor David Mitchell looked better than he had the day before — his jeans and dress shirt freshly pressed, white sideburns trimmed, face hinting at a good twelve hours of sedative-assisted sleep. He sawed a piece of paper against his thigh.

"I've asked my secretary to delay her," he told me. "We have about five minutes."

"Come again?"

He looked behind him nervously, then came all the way in and closed the door. "Ines Brandon."

"Aaron's widow. She's here?"

Mitchell sighed. "Mrs. Brandon needs to collect some of her husband's things. I wasn't sure how you'd — Perhaps we could talk in the hall?"

"Talk about what?"

He stared over my shoulder for a few seconds, then shook his head, coming out of his reverie. He held up the folded paper in his hand. "I'm sorry. The first report from Ms. Manos. You've seen it?"

"Have a seat."

"But—" He pointed behind him. "You're sure?"

I waved him toward the student's chair.

Mitchell checked his watch. He sat down reluctantly, probably remembering what had happened the last time he sat there, then unfolded Erainya's report and frowned at it. "Ms. Manos seems to be urging us to end the investigation."

"Erainya would love to keep taking your money. She's just trying to be clear with you. The State Licensing Board takes a dim view of investigators who churn cases, string clients along for more hours than necessary. If the police are right, UTSA has nothing to worry about. Brandon's murder was some kind of personal matter between Aaron and the man who killed him, Zeta Sanchez. Sanchez is a former employee of the Brandons. He might've murdered Aaron's father back in '93. If that's all true, you may wish to discontinue your investigation."

Mitchell's frown deepened. "The death threats, son. The bomb—"

"—could've been sent by Zeta Sanchez."

Mitchell studied my face. Apparently I didn't do a good job looking convinced.

"You don't believe that," he decided. "The letters started coming before Dr. Brandon was even hired. You know that."

"One letter came to Dr. Haimer. A month or so later, six more like it came to Brandon, then the bomb."

Mitchell rubbed his jaw. "You're saying someone could've copied the style of the first threat."

"It's possible. When did Dr. Haimer report it?"

"He didn't. He merely threw it in his file cabinet with all the other hate mail. Dr. Brandon came across it when he took over the office, but he didn't report it to us until after he received the second and third letters, addressed to him. That was the first time we knew we had a credible threat. That was in February, about five weeks into the term."

"So conceivably, anyone who saw that first letter to Haimer could've decided to copy the style and continue the death threats. A person who was after Aaron Brandon for another reason might've found the UTSA controversy a convenient cover."

"This man, Zeta Sanchez, would go to such trouble?"

"Doesn't seem likely," I admitted. "But the police already have a lot of other evidence pointing to Sanchez."

Mitchell shook his head. "The only people who could've seen that letter were University people, Tres. If something happened as you described, I can't imagine it was done by a—" Mitchell faltered.

"Gangster?"

"Yes."

"You want us to keep looking into the matter."

"I want Ms. Manos to look into it."

"That's what I meant."

Mitchell smiled faintly, checked his watch again. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather—"

"One more question." I pulled out the eight-by-ten carousel photo, held it up for Dr. Mitchell to see. "You know these men?"

Mitchell shook his head. "Aaron's relatives?"

"This one is his dad, Jeremiah. The other is Del, Aaron's brother. You ever seen the brother around campus? Maybe visiting Aaron's office?"

"Not that I recall. Why?"

I was thinking about whether to mention the business journal article when someone else knocked on the door. Professor Mitchell looked at me with a silent warning. He mouthed the words: She's drunk.

"It's okay," I promised.

Mitchell looked dubious, but he got up and opened the door. He stuck his head outside, mumbled something to the person waiting, then turned and said to me by way of reassurance, "I'll be just down the hall."