The Last King of Texas - By Rick Riordan Page 0,48

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.

Two things surprised me. One was a photocopy of a Pablo Neruda love poem, "Te Recuerdo Como Eras." The other was a tiny framed picture of a female police officer who looked like a heavier, lighter-skinned version of Ana DeLeon. By the color of the photo and the style of the woman's hair and uniform, I placed the photo circa 1975.

"Your mom?"

DeLeon glanced at it, then shoved another folder across her desk. "Yes."

She kept sorting papers, her eyes glassy.

"You okay?"

She glared at me, then pulled a color photo out of a case file and flicked it up at me with two fingers. "This is how okay I am."

All I saw in the photograph at first were glaring browns and reds. Then my mind made sense of the shapes and I pulled back, repulsed. It was a young child, African American, murdered and displayed in a way my mind comprehended but refused to process into complete thoughts.

"Jesus."

She slid the picture back into the file. "Good thing I was called away from our wonderful evening. Between the Brandon case and a couple of other things the Night CID couldn't handle I got that lovely call. Girl was three."

I swallowed, closed my eyes. The image wouldn't go away.

"No mystery," DeLeon said. "What was it the lieutenant said, a two plus two? Stepdad was a crack addict. Started yelling at the mom because she was stealing his money. It went downhill from there. Young victims. That's why I got out of