The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan

by Rick Riordan

  I wrote on my notepad, NO IMPALING. "You're talking about the Crusade narratives?"

  Several heads nodded. Edie informed me that Dr. Brandon had been obsessed with violence. More heads nodded.

  Sergeant Irwin, USAF, retired, raised his hand. "The Marie de France stories. We bought this whole book and only read one. Some of the others aren't quite so, well, offensive. Maybe we could read them."

  Edie agreed. She wanted to know if there were some romances in the book, some without werewolves.

  "I liked that one," complained Gregory.

  Edie and Morticia started to argue with him.

  Blake hollered, "Come on, man! It's this guy's first day and stuff."

  The grumbling died down. Morticia and Gregory and Edie kept glaring at each other. Marfa was giving me the eye now, wiggling her eyebrows in time with her knitting needles.

  "Great," I said again. We'd now ripped through twelve minutes. "I noticed the old syllabus was a little heavy on the gore. Maybe the Marie de France book would be a good place for a fresh start. How about the first three lais for Friday? We'll revisit Bisclavret and move to Lanval and Guigemar."

  There was some general mumbled assent.

  That gave me an opening to lecture a little bit about Marie de France, about the courtly love debate and the Anglo-Norman world. I kept stopping to ask if my students had heard all this before. They looked amazed. A few of them even bothered taking notes.

  I was just wrapping things up when George Berton came in, dressed in his usual sixties leisure clothes and Panama hat. He held Jem by one hand and an enormously full brown paper bag in the other.

  I kept lecturing about the difficulties of translating Anglo-Norman alliteration. George and Jem tiptoed around the back of the room and quietly took two desks next to Gregory. Jem waved at me, then pulled a new action figurine out of his OshKosh overalls and held it up for me to see.

  George looked at me seriously and pantomimed straightening a tie. My hand started to go up to my collar, then I stopped myself. George grinned.

  "Well," I concluded. "That's probably enough for the first day. We'll look at those first three lais on Friday. I'll keep the same office hours as Dr. Brandon. Anything else?"

  Edie the housewife raised her hand. "I read in the newspaper yesterday—"

  "About the bomb blast," I interrupted. "Thank you, but I'm fine."

  "No..." She frowned, as if my assumption that she'd been interested in my welfare had confused her. "I just wanted to ask, is it true you're a private investigator?"

  I looked back at George, who was slicing his hand horizontally across his throat, mouthing: No. No.

  "It's true," I said.

  The class shifted in their seats. Nobody followed up with questions. Nobody asked my trench coat size.

  "Well—" I said. "Okay then. See you Friday."

  At that, Jem put down his action figure and began clapping for me. The students looked back uneasily and began collecting their things. Jem kept clapping until the room was empty except for him, me, and George. George grinned. "Bravo, Professor."

  "What are you guys—"

  George held up his bulging paper bag. "Join us for lunch?"

  SEVENTEEN

  "You want the special or the beef?"

  The question was a mere formality. George nudged the Rolando's Special my way, grabbed the came guisada for himself, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles.

  He unwrapped the end of the mega-taco and took a bite, staring thoughtfully across the UTSA patillo.

  The white patio tables were abandoned this late in the afternoon, the sunken courtyard quiet except for the flutter of pigeons and the sound of the stone monolith fountain sluicing water off its slanted top into the pool below.

  Overhead, reflected light from the water pulsed across limestone pillars, up the two-story roof of opaque plastic bubbles. Lines of wooden slats hung from above like weird, Mondrian stalactites.

  According to UTSA folklore, the campus had been laid out following an ancient Aztec city design, which put the patillo in the center of the community and the fountain right where the altar would've been. Jem, who had already taken two bites of his kid's taco and pronounced himself full, was now tightrope-walking his Captain Chaos doll around the rim of the pool, right about where the bloody heads of the sacrificial victims would've rolled.

  I looked down at my Rolando's Special — a giant flour tortilla stuffed with eggs, guacamole, potato, bacon, cheese, and salsa. Normally it would have been enough to elevate me into Taco Nirvana. Today, all I could think about were sheet caves, the desolate interior of the Brandon home, and the things George Berton wasn't saying.

  He'd offered no comment on my morning's activities. Without expression, he read the short article I'd found in Aaron Brandon's desk about the IRS investigation in West Texas, then tucked it into his olive-green shirt pocket along with his cigars. He'd been animated enough talking about my classroom performance, the virtues of Rolando's, the great things Jem had been making with his Tinkertoys, but when the conversation had turned toward the Brandon case, George had closed up.

  Not that George didn't sometimes close up about his cases-in-progress. Every investigator does. But after our free conversation last night, his remoteness today made me uneasy.

  "The IRS article," I prompted. "Mean anything to you?"

  "You mean like was Aaron Brandon interested in drill bits?"

  "No, doofus. I mean like was Aaron Brandon getting ideas about turning his brother Del in to the IRS. If so, and if Del found out about it, Del might've wanted to stop him."

  "I don't know."

  "Okay," I said. "Hector Mara. What about him?"

  "I don't know."

  "What do you mean, you don't know?"

  "I talked to some people, heard pretty much the same thing Ralph told you. Mara's been doing business with Chich Gutierrez — maybe running some heroin, though nobody could tell me exactly how or where or to whom. Maybe Zeta Sanchez coming back would cramp Mara's style. Maybe it would cut into Chich Gutierrez's business. Doesn't necessarily mean Hector and Chich would set Sanchez up for a murder."

  "Whatever happened to Sandra?"

  George peeled back some tinfoil. "You mean Hector's sister. Sanchez's wife."

  "Yeah. The girl Jeremiah supposedly slept with. Whatever happened to her?"

  George hesitated. I could see a change in his eyes — a distance that hadn't been there before. "Jeremiah Brandon had a reputation, ese. The young girls who worked for him, or were family members of men who did — Jeremiah liked making them his conquests. He'd always win. Eventually the men would find out, but they usually did nothing. What could they do? If they complained, they lost their jobs. If they threatened, somebody like Zeta Sanchez would come visit them in the middle of the night. Jeremiah had all the power."

  "Lord of the manor."

  "What?"

  "Something Ozzie Gerson said. Go on."

  George stared past me. "Jeremiah would get a girl pregnant, or maybe the affair would just go on long enough where the family couldn't tolerate it anymore — Jeremiah would solve the problem by making the girl disappear. He'd give her a nice wad of cash, put her on the next bus to somewhere, or hand her over to his carnival buddies on their way out of town. She'd be gone to a new life, anywhere in the country. Jeremiah would be on to his next conquest."

  "And Sandra?"

  "A couple of days before Zeta Sanchez killed Jeremiah Brandon, Sandra Sanchez disappeared."

  "Ah."

  "Yeah. Suddenly all these trips Jeremiah Brandon was sending Sanchez on — all these collections Sanchez was making all across the country, they started to have a new meaning for Sanchez. His boss had been using that time to get friendly with Sandra."

  "Bad."

  "Unforgivable. A loss of face like that for a guy like Sanchez — unforgivable, ese."

  "Maybe for Hector Mara, too. Sandra was Hector's sister. Jeremiah Brandon used her and
threw her away. Hector had as much reason to hate the Brandons as Zeta Sanchez. If Hector needed to get Sanchez out of the way and was looking for somebody to kill for the frame-up, what more logical choice than a Brandon?"

  George was quiet for a count of five. "Possible."

  "But you've got something else. What is it, George?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You started to tell me something a minute ago, then decided against it."

  Slowly, George put together a grin. "I'm thinking of a number between one and twenty, Navarre."

  "Screw you."

  George laughed. "Ask me tomorrow. I've got an aversion to talking about leads before they work out."

  "It's damn irritating."

  "It's exactly the way you operate."

  "Rub it in."

  We finished eating in silence. George worked on the carne guisada. I got through about half of my special. Nearby some pigeons fought over an old popcorn box while Jem walked Captain Chaos around the fountain, Jem's forearms getting speckled with water.

  George crumpled his aluminum foil wrapper into a baseball-sized wad and began flipping it up and catching it.

  "At some point we're going to have to talk to the SAPD again," I told him. "You find out anything more about Ana DeLeon?"

  George raised his eyebrows, did an overhand catch. "Don't even think about it, Navarre."

  "I'm only asking—"

  "Yeah, I know." His eyes glittered. "I met your old girlfriend from San Francisco last Christmas — remember? Maia Lee?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "That Ana DeLeon's just your type. And knowing that should be enough to warn you off."

  "You're so far off base—"

  "'S'okay, man." George flipped his aluminum foil ball. "You like the fortress women, the unapproachable ones. You like the challenge. Try to settle for somebody who can't out-think you and beat you at arm-wrestling — you're disappointed, can't stick with it. Annie, Carolaiyn, how many others didn't make the cut since Maia Lee, man? I've lost count."

  There was no bitterness in his voice, no criticism. His smile was even a little wistful.

  "I won't dignify that with a response," I told him.

  "Don't need to."

  He turned the aluminum ball in his fingers. His smile disintegrated.

  "What?" I asked.

  George shook his head. "Old Jeremiah Brandon. It's just that the more I hear about him, the stories, the way Sanchez brought him down—"

  "I know."

  George shook his head. "I don't think you do, ese. What Brandon could do to the people who worked for him, the young women especially, the things he got away with — it hits me in a place I don't want to be hit. I start feeling glad somebody shot the old man, start wishing I'd even been there to see it. I begin thinking of Zeta Sanchez as a hero. That scares me, ese. It scares me a lot." We sat listening to the water sluice into the fountain, the pigeons pecking at a potato chip under a nearby table.

  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, asshole?"

  "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.

  "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.