The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(4)

I was sitting in a student desk about thirty feet down the hallway. I would've been happy to move farther away and leave the squad to their fun, but there was a paramedic patching up my face.

The narrow mustard-colored corridors of the Humanities Building were overflowing with SAPD, campus police, ATF, UTSA administrators. With everybody bustling around and the bomb-squad guys hanging out in their flack suits, I had the distinct feeling that I'd been dropped into the Beatles' yellow submarine during a Blue Meenie invasion.

One of the bomb-squad guys glanced down the hall to where Ana DeLeon stood talking with Lieutenant Jimmy Hernandez, the SAPD homicide commander. "Always thought DeLeon'd be a blast."

Another said, "Dyke. Forget it, man."

The sergeant cupped his crotch. "Just hasn't met the right kind of pipe bomb yet."

That got a few more guffaws.

DeLeon was a lot closer to them than I was, but she gave no indication that she'd heard. Neither did the lieutenant.

An evidence tech came out of the blown-up office. He went over to the bomb-squad sergeant and compared notes. I.E.D. Improvised explosive device. A metal pipe joint packed with solid oxygen compound and a few common household baking ingredients, some nuts and bolts thrown in for extra nastiness, a nine-volt battery wired to the package's flap — designed to break circuit when the package was opened. Instead it had broken prematurely on impact with the desk. The whole thing had probably cost thirty bucks to make.

"Gang-bangers," the sergeant told the evidence tech. "Solidox — real popular with the homies. Simple and cheap. Half the time they blow themselves up making it, which is all right by me."

Detective DeLeon was still talking with Lieutenant Hernandez. Another plainclothes detective came up behind them and stood there silently, unhappily. He was about six-one, Anglo, well dressed, looked like he ate rottweilers for breakfast.

DeLeon gestured in my direction.

Hernandez focused on me, recognized me with no pleasure, then said something to the rottweiler-eater. All three of them started down the hall.

"'Scuse me," DeLeon told the bomb squad.

A few riotous comments appeared to be dancing on their lips until they noticed Hernandez and the big Anglo guy flanking her. The squad managed to contain their humor.

When DeLeon reached my paramedic she asked, "How's he doing?"

"I can talk," I promised.

DeLeon ignored me. The paramedic told her I'd be fine with some painkillers and a few stitches and some rest. DeLeon did not look overjoyed.

Lieutenant Hernandez stepped forward. "Navarre."

His handshake delivered about sixty pounds per square inch into my knuckles.

Hernandez was a small oily man, hair like molded aluminum sheeting. He did his clothes shopping in the Sears boys' department and his wide brown tie hung down over his zipper. Despite his compact size, the lieutenant had a reputation for hardness matched only by that same quality in his hair.

He released my mangled hand. "Detective DeLeon tells me you dunked the bomb. She says you did all right."

DeLeon was scribbling something on her notepad. When she noticed me looking at her, her thin black eyebrows crept up a quarter inch, her expression giving me a defiant What?

"Detective DeLeon is too generous with her praise," I told Hernandez.

The big Anglo guy snorted.

Hernandez shot him a warning look. "DeLeon also tells me you're considering the teaching position. May I ask why?"

A sudden pain ripped through my jaw. The EMT told me to hold still. He dabbed some bandages onto my cheek. The sensation was warm and numb and far away.

When I could move my mouth again I said, "Maybe I resent being blown up."

Hernandez nodded. "But of course you're not under any impression that taking this job might afford you a chance at payback."

"Teaching well is the best revenge."

A smile flicked in the corner of Hernandez's mouth. The Anglo guy behind him studied me like he was mentally placing me in a bowl with the rottweilers and pouring milk on me.

"Besides," I continued, "I was assured the case was already in good hands."

DeLeon's eyes met mine, cool and level. You almost couldn't tell she'd just been through an explosion. Her makeup had been perfectly reapplied, her hair reformed into severe black wedges, not a glossy strand out of place. The only visible damage to her ensemble was a two-inch triangular slit ripped in the shoulder of her pearl-gray blazer.

"This incident changes nothing, Mr. Navarre."

The big Anglo said, "Should f**king well change who's in charge."

Hernandez turned toward him and held up one finger, like he was going to tap the big guy on the chin.

"We are in charge, Kelsey. We as in a team. We as in — you got problems with the way I make duty assignments, file a complaint. In the meantime" — he waved at DeLeon — "whatever she says."

DeLeon didn't skip a beat. "Get with Special Agent Jacobs. Cooperate — whatever she wants on the bombing. Help canvass, get statements from everybody who's handled packages on campus, negative statements from everybody who hasn't. I want timing on the delivery of the package correlated to the time of the shooting. I also want statements from every student in every class Brandon has taught this semester."

Kelsey grunted. "The Feds'll take a pass. You know goddamn well—"