The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(37)

I looked over at Jem, who was circling the rim of the water fountain, his arms out like an airplane, his Captain Chaos clenched in one fist.

The sight of Jem made me smile, as it always did. Thank God for that kid. I looked over at George. He was apparently thinking the same thing.

I said, "You bought Jem that damn figurine, didn't you?"

George put his fingers on his chest. "And break Erainya's no-toy rule?"

"Affection-buying bastard. What can I do while you're out chasing leads?"

George smiled, a little sadness still in his eyes.

"You can teach your classes, Professor. What else?"

EIGHTEEN

"Full name," Detective Kelsey demanded.

"A guy hits you in the stomach," I said, "and you don't remember his name?"

The detective pushed back from his desk. His big Irish nose turned brake-light red. "Did I ask you here, ass**le?"

"Jackson Navarre. You want me to spell it?"

"Give me your license."

He propped it on his keyboard and began clacking the information into the computer, using index fingers only.

I scanned the corkboard on his cubicle wall. There were pictures of Kelsey in camouflage next to a dead ten-point buck; Kelsey in bowling clothes; Kelsey in a TCU football uniform; Kelsey in SWAT black with an H&K 94 carbine. Lots of pictures of Kelsey. Lots of sports equipment and guns and deceased animals.

Zero other human beings.

Down the central walkway of the SAPD homicide office, foot traffic was light. It was Wednesday evening but could just as easily have been three A.M. Monday or one P.M. Friday. No windows gave away the time, no change of lighting, no clocks. To the left and right, gray walls and gray carpet and gray five-foot-high dividing walls stretched out, the colorlessness punctuated here and there by a troll doll goggling over someone's cubicle, a sad ivy plant, a buzz-cut head asking something of the buzz-cut head next door. The space was devoid of noise and smell and temperature, designed like an emotional sponge to suck all the passion out of the events the investigators handled every day.

Kelsey's cubicle was not in a position of privilege. He was next to the case files closet, close to the interrogation rooms, within ear-pulling distance of Lieutenant Hernandez's office.

Kelsey stopped typing. He put his index finger on my license, looked back and forth between it and the screen to make sure he got everything right. His finger hesitated over my middle name. "Tray?"

"Trace. You know — Spanish. Numero tres."

Kelsey grunted, hit RETURN. "Statement."

I went through what I'd seen yesterday during the apprehension of Zeta Sanchez at Hector Mara's farm. I didn't mention Kelsey's hesitation responding to Ana DeLeon's call for help. Kelsey did not type in how I had punched him in the gut. We were fast friends that way.

While Kelsey finished composing, I looked through the big glass window of the commander's office. Lieutenant Hernandez was having a deadly serious conversation with a well-dressed Anglo who had the reddest hair and the whitest skin I'd ever seen.

"Who's the leprechaun?" I asked.

Kelsey followed my gaze. He thought for a second, probably debating whether or not he had anything to lose by answering. "Canright. ADA on rotation to homicide this week. Lucky us."

I looked again through the window. Canright was holding up gold-ringed hands and shaking them, like he was showing the size of an imaginary fish. Hernandez leaned on the edge of his desk, his hands pinched tightly under his armpits. The lieutenant's face had its usual metallic hardness.

"So what's the argument?" I asked.

Kelsey pointed behind me with his chin. Down the side corridor, I could just see the doorway of the first interrogation room. An armed, uniformed deputy stood outside. The face of Ana DeLeon passed briefly behind the tiny one-foot-square window — mid-pace,  mid-conversation.

"Celebrity guest," Kelsey said. "Zeta Sanchez stonewalled the ATF for twelve hours yesterday. Now DeLeon's giving it a try. Guess Canright was expecting we'd have a confession by now. We're holding up his political career."

At that moment, the commander's door flew open. Canright stormed out, Hernandez right behind him. Their argument re-formed around the doorway, five feet away from us.

Down the other way, the interrogation room door opened too. Ana DeLeon led Zeta Sanchez out by the upper arm. The surprised guard lurched into formation behind them.

DeLeon wore a khaki Lands' End trench coat over the red dress she'd had on the night before. From her eyes and makeup and hair it was clear she'd never gone to bed.

Sanchez was dressed in orange prison scrubs and plastic sandals. His wrists were clamped together in plastic cuffs, the kind they reserve for the most violent offenders. The side of his face was swollen from DeLeon's pistol-whipping yesterday, and he sported an even newer injury — a busted lower lip that was stitched up and oozing on the left side like a bisected caterpillar. The mustache and beard made a cursive W around his lower face, a shape mirrored by his high hairline. His eyes were calm, sleepy. The undamaged side of his mouth crept up in a little smile that made my stomach go cold.

DeLeon walked him in our direction until Hernandez and District Attorney Canright intercepted her, right in front of Kelsey's desk. Kelsey and I stood up, making the walkway mighty cozy.