The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(5)

Hernandez said, "Kelsey."

"So I'm just supposed to piddle with busywork while we let that scumbag Sanchez sit out there?"

"Kelsey," Hernandez repeated.

Kelsey's eyes were locked on DeLeon's.

Lieutenant Hernandez's voice broke in as soft and sharp as asbestos. "Are you capable of acting as secondary on this case, Detective?"

After three very long seconds, Kelsey reached into his shirt pocket, took out a ballpoint pen, held it up for DeLeon to see, and clicked it. Then he turned and left.

"One big happy," I noted.

Hernandez's aluminum hair glittered as he turned toward me. "While I'm in charge, Navarre, you can depend on it. You need to speak to anyone concerning the Brandon homicide, you will speak to Detective DeLeon. My advice, however — teach your classes, stay safe, and stay out of her way."

"Two pigeons and a lot of fine essays died in that blast."

Hernandez sighed. "Let's do a story, Navarre. Let's talk about a time one of my top people advised me to — say — de-prioritize a lead."

Hernandez stared at me until I supplied a name. "Gene Schaeffer?"

Hernandez nodded almost imperceptibly, then looked at DeLeon. "There was an aggravated assault case about the time you transferred out to sex crimes, Detective. Local crackhead had been terrorizing a neighborhood of senior citizens over by Jefferson. Everybody knew who was doing it, nobody would testify. Along toward Christmas, this crackhead got a little too excited, beat an old lady almost to death. Again, nobody would testify, nobody saw anything. Then, a week later, said crackhead is found with two broken arms, hanging duct-taped upside down from a railroad crossing gate on Zarzamora. He's about half dead, eyes pounded so bad he looks like a raccoon. We cut him down. He gives a full confession for the assault on the old lady, says please will we put him in jail and let him give some money to the victim's family. Real heartwarming. He also refuses to ID his attacker, so we know we got a vigilante out there. A couple of interesting names came up in the case. Some Christmas cards and goodies from that neighborhood got mailed to an interesting address on Queen Anne Street — jam, preserves, fruitcakes."

"Jellied fruits," I added.

"Jellied fruits," Hernandez agreed. He clamped a very strong hand on my shoulder and didn't seem to mind at all that he was stopping my blood flow. "So what I'm saying here, Mr. Navarre, is, things change. Friends move on, the paperwork keeps coming across my desk, favors get depleted, my patience gets thin. You understanding me here?"

"Clear as Cuervo," I promised.

"Outstanding. I hope the rest of the semester goes well for you, Professor."

Hernandez gave my shoulder one more crush, nodded to DeLeon, and went to see about the media who were gathering outside the police tape by the elevator. The other way down the hall, the bomb squad was still hanging out, drinking Dr Peppers, talking about the length of their respective pipe bombs and TNT Ping-Pong balls and occasionally weaving in references to DeLeon's legs and her probable lingerie preferences.

"First case?" I asked her.

It took DeLeon a few seconds to focus on me. "I worked agg. assault for a year, Mr. Navarre. Sex crimes for two. I've seen plenty."

"First time primary on a homicide?"

Her jaw tightened.

"Hell of a case to cut your teeth on," I agreed.

"Don't patronize me."

I held up my hands. Even that much movement made the soreness in my left arm flare. "Kelsey seems pretty sure the Feds will take a pass."

She stared down the hallway. "Like I said, Mr. Navarre, you've got no special privileges."

"He mentioned somebody named Sanchez. Who would that be?"

DeLeon almost smiled, thought better of it. "I'll see you around, Mr. Navarre."

The paramedic got up, began packing his kit, and said he should be getting me to the hospital. DeLeon nodded.

She turned toward the bomb-squad guys, who were still leering at her, then took something from her blazer.

She hefted the thing in her hand for a split second — long enough for the bomb squad to register what it was and notice that its weight was too heavy, but not long enough for them to rationalize that DeLeon wasn't really that insane. I'll be damned if I know where she got the Ping-Pong ball, or what she'd filled it with. Maybe she'd lifted it from the student rec center when she went to wash up. Maybe she'd been carrying it in her pocket for months for just such an occasion. Police are nothing if not resourceful.

DeLeon said, "Hey, Hills, catch."

Then she did a fast underhand pitch at the chest of the blond sergeant. You've never seen a bomb squad scatter with so little room to maneuver and so much Dr Pepper spraying into the air. The Ping-Pong ball hit Sergeant Hills in the chest and bounced harmlessly to the floor.

Hills' face went the color of chalk dust as he looked up at DeLeon. "You crazy f**king bitch."

His fingers splayed open. A large Dr Pepper stain was seeping into his crotch and down his left thigh.

DeLeon responded so softly you almost had to read her lips. She said, "Boom."

Then she turned and walked steadily down the hall, toward the news camera lights.

THREE

By the time I got to Erainya Manos' office, the codeine Tylenol from the Methodist Hospital was working fine. My face had softened to the consistency of tofu and I could only feel my feet because in my VW convertible, I can feel everything.