The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(41)

Canright ran skinny white fingers through his red hair, shot a look at Hernandez. "Am I not being clear? Ana, honey, am I not being clear?"

"My last name is DeLeon."

Canright made a cup with his hands. "This guy shot an innocent man in his home, Ana. A college professor, husband, father. Then he shot a cop. I don't need a 'why' to nail his ass in court. You took him down. Your first homicide case — you did great. Now it's mine."

"Let me explain it another way, sir." DeLeon took her notepad and pen from her overcoat. She wrote as she said, "I'm. Not. Done. Honey."

She underlined the words, tore off the sheet, and tried to tuck it into Canright's coat.

The ADA stepped back, brushing her hand away. "All right, Ana. That's it. That's it."

"Mr. Canright—"

"Detective," Hernandez intervened. "You're up for cold-case duty. Starting Monday we rotate you in for three months. Between now and then you should get some rest."

"Lieutenant—"

Hernandez turned toward Kelsey, who was leaning against a nearby partition. "Take care of what Mr. Canright needs for court. Follow up."

Kelsey smiled. "My pleasure." He drifted back toward his cubicle. Canright nodded with dry approval. He turned to say something else to DeLeon, probably something appeasing.

Lieutenant Hernandez said, "Good-bye, Mr. Canright. We'll keep you apprised."

Canright closed his mouth, nodded. When he got to the doorway he couldn't stand it. He turned and called, "You did an excellent job, Ana, honey. I mean that."

The homicide office sucked up the sound of his voice. Everything returned to quiet neutral gray as soon as the door swung closed.

DeLeon crumpled her note and dropped it at Hernandez's feet.

"Ana," Hernandez said, "they want a quick resolution. They smell blood. You're a district attorney, you don't see a two-plus-two case like this and beat your head against a wall trying to figure out how you can make it come up five."

"God damn it, Lieutenant—"

"You don't wait for the media to tear you apart for inaction. You prosecute."

"It's incomplete. Canright knows it. You know it."

"It's open-and-shut. Even if it wasn't — you really want to fight for a douche bag like Sanchez?"

She turned to go.

Hernandez said, "Wait."

DeLeon looked back at him icily.

"Between now and Monday, you get no new cases. I stand by what I said — Monday it's the cold squad, before then it's some rest. That doesn't preclude wrapping up your present caseload. As long as it's low-key and quick. Not too taxing on you. I want you fresh for Monday. You understand me?"

The intensity in DeLeon's eyes eased up a bit. "Yes, sir."

"Discreet. Low-key. Nothing that might give Mr. Canright apoplexy."

DeLeon allowed herself a tired smile. "I understand, Lieutenant."

As DeLeon walked away, Hernandez looked around to see who was watching. He met my eyes again, pretended he hadn't, then returned to his office.

I found DeLeon's cubicle at the end of the room, next to one of the sergeants' offices. The sergeant was apparently on vacation. His glass door was closed, the lights off, a woodcut GONE FISHIN' sign hung over the shade.

DeLeon was sitting in her task chair, the Lands' End trench coat shed over it like melted Swiss, her pumps kicked onto the carpet. She stared momentarily at something taped to her computer screen, then bent forward and buried her face in her forearms.

I leaned against the side of her cubicle.

The back of DeLeon's red dress had unzipped itself about an inch at the collar. Three tiny lines of soft hair ran down her neck from the sharp wedge-cut, like jet trails.

"Buy you some dinner?" I asked.

She opened the top eye and peered at me wearily. "Don't you ever go away?"

She sat up, rubbed her eyes, then refocused on the thing taped to her monitor. It was a Polaroid of a stuffed longhorn doll — Bevo, the UT mascot. An anonymous white male hand was holding the muzzle of a .38 against its head. A little handwritten sign under the longhorn's chin said please MOMMY BRING THEM DOUGHNUTS OR THEY'LL VENTILATE ME!! The writing was intentionally childlike and the bull's goofy cartoon grin didn't fit his predicament. On top of DeLeon's monitor, a circle of dust-free space marked the spot where the longhorn had probably sat.

DeLeon yanked the Polaroid off the computer screen. "Bastards."

"Locker-room humor."

"Oh, yeah. Me and the boys — we're tight. We snap each other's butts with towels all the time."

I tried not to picture that. "Be a lot worse if they just ignored you."

"You're just the expert on everything, aren't you, Navarre? You and your friend Mr. Air-Force-Special-Police."

"About last night—"

"Save it."

She began shuffling papers with a vengeance, clearing her in box, taking down little stickie notes and division memos that adorned the fabric walls. As the first layer of paper came down, personal stuff was unearthed — a photo of DeLeon getting awarded her detective's shield, a framed B.S. in criminal justice from UT, a picture of her as an air force cadet.