The Last King of Texas - By Rick Riordan Page 0,46

- I can't do shit about that."

"It was a revolver, Anthony. A gold-plated revolver."

Sanchez's face darkened. "You fuckers couldn't - "

He stopped himself.

DeLeon waited. "We fuckers couldn't what, Anthony - have that revolver? The one you killed Jeremiah Brandon with six years ago? And why would that be?"

No answer.

DeLeon stepped over to the table and grabbed a folder, slid a piece of paper out of it and dropped it onto Sanchez's crotch.

"I was wondering why you came back now, Anthony, why you waited so long - at least now we got the answer to that. How was prison in Mexico?"

Sanchez looked down at the discharge document. I could read the words Nuevo Leon, Sistema Penitenciario Federal, Mexican state seals on either side. "I show you sometime," Sanchez offered to DeLeon.

"That throat-slitting just about heal, did it? I hear the other guy looked even worse."

Sanchez just smiled.

DeLeon retrieved the paper with two fingers, slid it back into the folder, and tossed it onto the table. "Why'd you go to Hector Mara's, Anthony?"

Sanchez licked his lips. "We're friends, man. Old compadres."

"And relatives. Oh, sorry. Ex-relatives. I mean, until that little thing between your wife and Jeremiah Brandon. What was her name - Sandra? What is that legally, when your wife skips town because she's been sleeping with your boss, then you go and kill the boss? Does that constitute a legal divorce?"

Sanchez's neck muscles worked into knots, but he said nothing.

"You knew we'd be looking for you, Anthony, right? Even before you killed Aaron. Why stay with your old buddy Hector, visit your old hangouts, talk to old friends like you've been doing? Why keep such a high profile?"

"Just wanted to settle some things, man. That's all."

"Like killing the Brandons?"

Sanchez didn't respond.

"Hey, Anthony, you know, I'd like to think you weren't stupid. I'd like to think you didn't shoot Aaron Brandon. I really would. I mean it's embarrassing - using a weapon you fucking well know will get traced back to you, ditching it so sloppy, leaving a witness. I'd like to think somebody set you up for this to get you out of circulation - somebody who's been holding on to your gun all this time and found it a lot easier to shoot an English teacher than to shoot you. Tell me that's the way it is, Anthony. Maybe I can help."

"Fuck you, missy."

"You're not helping me believe you're smart, Anthony. You shot a cop when we tried to bring you in. Even without the Aaron Brandon murder, you're not making much of a show for brains."

"I hear that fat fuck Gerson's voice, I'm gonna empty a few clips at him. That's the smart thing."

DeLeon held up her hands in exasperation. "You're not helping at all, Anthony. Look at Dr. Navarre - he's practically peeing in his pants."

Sanchez looked at me and we locked eyes a second too long. There was nothing I could do about it. The signal went out. A moment of clear, silent hostility passed between us as hotly charged and unintentional as a thousand-volt arc through a squirrel.

Detective DeLeon tried to get his attention back. "Yo, Anthony. How did Dr. Brandon get dead with your gun if you didn't kill him?"

Reluctantly, Sanchez's eyes drifted away from mine. "No mas, missy. That's all I'm saying."

"You were set up?"

Sanchez shook his head noncommittally.

"But you're innocent."

"Fuckin' A, missy. Por vida."

"Well shit." She looked at me. "So they're going to put Mr. Sanchez away for murder - but I can't tell you for sure he's the man that killed your predecessor. Might still be somebody out there, laughing their ass off that Mr. Sanchez was willing to take the rap. Sorry, Dr. Navarre. Conclusion of interview."

She reached over to the machine, punched STOP.

"That it?" Sanchez asked.

DeLeon nodded. "Why're you letting them do this to you, Anthony?"

Sanchez brushed his fingers over the stitches on his busted lip. "I ain't letting nobody do shit." He focused on me again. "So you a professor?"

"That's right."

He grinned. "You know how they say, you got blood on your hands once you kill somebody?"

"I know how they say that. Yeah."

"Let me see your hands."

It would've been a mistake to look at DeLeon. Or to hesitate. Never mind that we were in the middle of SAPD with an armed guard outside and Sanchez in plastic cuffs. The moment was dangerous.

I extended my right hand. Sanchez took it, turned it over, traced