The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(38)

"Where are you going?" Canright demanded.

DeLeon raised her eyebrows. "The bathroom."

"The what?"

"He needs to pee, sir. You know — the little boys' room?"

Canright's face erupted in strawberry spots. He looked at Hernandez, whose expression stayed neutral. Zeta Sanchez, for his part, had his eyes on DeLeon. He kept pushing the tip of his tongue suggestively against the busted side of his lip.

"Detective—" Canright started.

"We're crossing our legs here, sir." DeLeon looked at Hernandez for a green light. "My interview, my suspect, and he really needs to pee. Okay, Lieutenant?"

After a moment of silent deliberation, Lieutenant Hernandez gestured toward the exit.

"Thank you." DeLeon looked at me for the first time, dispassionately, like I was an overdue stenographer. "Walk with us."

ADA Canright's face turned even redder. "Wait just a goddamn—"

DeLeon was already pushing past.

I was almost too surprised to move but fell in line behind DeLeon and Sanchez and the deputy guard. The four of us went out the reception area of homicide, past two secretaries and a group of crying women, into the hallway. The outer corridors of the department were tiled in green, fluorescent lit, with metal rolling equipment carts abandoned here and there and windows looking into dark rooms. It reminded me of a hospital delivery ward. We walked to the end of the hall where the vending machines and rest-rooms were, our heels clacking against the tiles.

When we got to the men's room door, DeLeon let loose of Sanchez's arm. "Go ahead."

Sanchez looked from her to the door, calculating.

DeLeon asked, "You need one of the guys to help you find it?"

Sanchez gave her a mildly surprised smile, as if the insult pleased him. He went inside.

The deputy started to follow but DeLeon stopped him. "That's okay."

The restroom door closed.

DeLeon leaned against the vending machine and let her posture deteriorate, her weariness have its way. She rubbed her eyes, then the back of her neck. Finally she focused her bloodshot eyes on me. "Your job is to be silent."

"Not my best role."

"You visited the Brandons, didn't you? Saw that little kid and his mom?"

"I did."

"It shows in your eyes when you look at him. The anger. Tone it down."

I hadn't even realized it until she said it, but she was right. Two minutes in Zeta Sanchez's company had eroded any doubt that the man was a murderer, that he could have walked with smugness bordering on stupidity into Aaron Brandon's home in Alamo Heights, plugged him twice with a .45, and walked out, expecting complete impunity. Looking into Sanchez's face, I stopped wondering about motive and connections and possible frame-ups. The man was loosely packaged, industrial-grade violence.

When I thought about the sheet cave in Michael Brandon's room, about Ines Brandon's tears, I wanted to wipe that little smile off what was left of Sanchez's face.

The door of the restroom opened. Sanchez came out. He looked around uncertainly, like he himself couldn't believe he hadn't tried to make a break for it. DeLeon clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "I didn't hear water running."

Sanchez took a moment to focus on her and register the comment. "What?"

"You didn't wash your hands."

The hardness in his eyes diluted with confusion. "What?"

DeLeon sighed, looked at me, then back at Sanchez like a mother with strained patience. "I might have to shake your hand later, Anthony, and I know where it's been. Go back and wash your hands."

He stared at DeLeon, then at the bathroom door. Then he went back in. This time we heard water running. The shudder of pipes as the faucet shut off. The printing-press sound of the towel roll dispenser being pulled down to fresh cloth. Our deputy guard looked at the floor, shook his head, muttered something about a waste of time.

Sanchez came back out. He showed DeLeon his clean hands, the webbing between his fingers still glistening with water and soap foam. He looked at DeLeon with intense curiosity, as if he was really interested in what she'd say. "Okay." She started to lead us back down the hall, then stopped abruptly, turned back, and almost ran into Sanchez. "You want a Snickers?"

Sanchez hesitated, shook his head cautiously.

"No?" DeLeon looked at me with the same question, but her eyes were giving me a dead courtesy, an act. I shook my head.

She tried again with Sanchez. "Peanuts? M&M's? You got to be hungry."

Sanchez wavered. "Peanuts."

DeLeon held out her hand to the deputy and tapped her fingertips against her palm. The deputy grumbled, then fished around in his pockets until he came up with some quarters. DeLeon bought Sanchez some peanuts.

We walked back down the hall and into the homicide division. As we passed Hernandez's office a new, calmer conversation was taking place inside — Hernandez, Kelsey, Canright. The three men's eyes fixed on us like sniper sites as we walked past. They noticed the peanuts.

When we got to the interrogation room, DeLeon waved Sanchez and me inside. She told the deputy to stay by the door.

The room was the size of a closet, walls painted the same homicide gray as outside. There were two hardwood chairs and a little desk with a computer terminal, some manila folder files, a tape recorder. Zeta Sanchez sat in one chair. At DeLeon's insistence I took the other, next to the terminal. My chair had one leg that was slightly shorter than the others. When I moved it went bimp-bump like a wooden heartbeat.