know.”

“Are you doing that work release program?”

“Yeah, out picking up trash in my little orange jumpsuit.”

“What about the gang? Are you still in it?”

Herrera cocked his head. “Why do you have to go ask me that for? You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Look, Tony, we think that Brianna’s death might be gang related,” Joe said intently.

“No way, man. Who would do that? Nobody I know would go after a kid,” Herrera said.

“You don’t know anyone who has a beef with you?” Joe asked.

“Nah, man, I got no problems,” he said.

“How about Sureño 13?” Joe asked. “Your West Side boys have been having some problems with them.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Herrera said, “but that’s got nothing to do with me.”

“How can you be so sure?” Joe asked.

“I ain’t doing that shit no more,” Herrera said. “I got out.”

“Why?” Joe asked.

“I got tired of the life, you know?” Herrera said, his eyes tightening again.

Gil knew that Herrera likely was scared straight by the inherent violence. Of the reasons members left gangs, the fear of death was the one most often cited, next to starting a family.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Joe asked.

Gil was about to interrupt, to tell Joe that no gang member would lie about his affiliation or lack of one, when Herrera rolled up the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit. His upper right bicep was sliced with scars where someone had clearly cut through the skin several times. The effort was made to stamp out the tattoo below, which was still slightly visible. It was a w.s. for West Side Locos.

“I did this myself,” Herrera said, proud of the scars he had inflicted. Joe was about to ask another question, but Gil knew he had the opening he had been waiting for.

“Where’s your tattoo for Brianna?” Gil asked. In New Mexico, where almost two thirds of people under twenty-five had tattoos, it was considered common to get inscriptions of your children’s names. Especially if you were in jail. Especially if the child had died. “Every guy in here has his kids’ names tattooed somewhere. Where’s yours?”

“I’ve been meaning to get one of those,” Herrera said with a flash of teeth.

“You know what else is strange? You didn’t ask how Brianna died,” Gil said, again without inflection. Perfectly modulated.

Herrera shrugged. “Whatever, it don’t matter. It is what is. Dead is dead.” Herrera’s eyes tightened again. That was what Gil had been watching for. He had finally seen beneath Herrera’s one-note emotion of suspicion, and what he had seen was something more sinister—a lie.

“You’re not her father,” Gil said. He felt Joe tighten up next to him.

Herrera started, “That’s not—” but he had paused too long before jumping in with the denial.

“Who’s the dad? Do you know?” Gil asked.

Herrera leaned back on his stool, his arms crossed in front of him, the blue tattoos on his arms indecipherable in their squiggles and turns. Gil saw those crossed arms and knew he needed a different tack.

He turned to Joe and said, “Why do you think he kept saying that Brianna was his kid when he knew she wasn’t?”

“I totally would have done it,” Joe said, catching on. “In a heartbeat. Ashley told everybody he was the dad. After Brianna went missing, all these people came in here to visit, the cops, family, you know. I bet he felt like a celebrity. Like even that cute blond TV reporter came here. She did like, what, two jailhouse interviews with you?” Joe said, turning to Herrera.

“More like three,” Herrera said with a sly smile.

“Exactly,” Joe said. “I would have said I was the dad of Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer if it meant I could spend a few minutes alone with her.”

“When did you find out that Brianna wasn’t your kid?” Gil asked.

“A year or so after she was born,” he said.

“I thought you guys were dating when Ashley got pregnant,” Joe said. “How do you know you’re not the dad?”

“You gotta stick it in to get a baby to come out,” Herrera said with a laugh.

“You never had sex?” Gil asked.

“Just one time,” he said. “I totally had to force her to do it, and I know she didn’t get pregnant.”

“How do you know?” Gil asked.

“ ’Cause I ain’t stupid,” Herrera said. “Brianna was born exactly nine months after Ashley and I had sex.”

“But Brianna was born premature,” Joe said.

“Exactly,” Herrera said with a snort. “I can do the math. Ash got pregnant way after we had sex.”

“It must have