of Zapata’s cutters, shot point-blank in the gut. Our guys have been asking around. Seems there was a meeting that went bad at Jarrasco’s last night. This guy and a friend met a heavyset Latino with a ponytail, about the same time that Ana was shot. The description kinda matches Ralph Arguello.”
“You’re saying Arguello has an alibi.”
“A bad goddamn alibi. He was busy shooting a guy?”
“But that would mean he didn’t shoot Ana.”
“It’s weak, sir. It’s still gotta be him.”
Etch heard the indecision in his voice.
Kelsey was the equivalent of an Abrams tank. As long as he had a clear target in the distance and wide straight road, he would roll over everything in his path. But as soon as he started doubting his aim or hit muddy terrain, he ground to a halt. He needed a good push to keep going.
“Kelsey,” Etch said, “if you think you may have been too focused on Arguello, for whatever reason, if you think you’ve made a mistake, it’s not too late . . .”
He could almost feel the steam on the other end of the line. Etch had dared to use the M-word.
“I didn’t make a mistake, sir,” Kelsey said tightly.
“All right.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Kelsey hung up, hard.
Etch sat back and closed his eyes. He tried to convince himself everything could still work out.
With luck, Kelsey would now hound Arguello till Doomsday, and he would think it was his own idea. He would think Etch had tried to convince him not to.
Etch didn’t hate many people, but Ralph Arguello deserved to go down. He’d gotten away with murder before. He was no better than the Whites. Worse. He’d married Ana, jeopardized the career Etch had helped her build.
Two years ago, watching them at the altar had been more than Etch could bear—Ana in her white dress, her face so much like her mother’s, and a common criminal next to her, grinning like the devil.
Navarre and Maia Lee had been at the wedding. Then, as now, standing by Ralph Arguello, supporting somebody who didn’t deserve it, watching him take Ana’s hand.
Etch imagined Lucia sitting next to him, the way she had so many years on patrol.
Why did you do it, Etch? she asked.
It was an accident, he promised her. It wasn’t supposed to happen.
She turned her face to the window. It was no accident. You know better.
The sound of his cell phone startled him out of his trance.
His surveillance man had a short report: Maia Lee had spent the last couple of hours inside the Express-News offices, probably going through the archives. Now she was at the Pig Stand, talking to the old guy behind the counter.
Etch hung up, hit the steering wheel with his palm.
“Miss Lee,” he chided. “Miss Lee, Miss Lee.”
He felt his anger building.
Jaime Santos had done more than a little talking. The old man was dangerous. And Maia Lee . . . she was too much like Ana. She was following Ana’s trail too well.
If Kelsey didn’t do his work right, if Arguello started looking bad as a suspect . . .
Etch searched for a fallback plan. Only one came to him—an idea that had been brewing since he debriefed the old deputy Drapiewski. It had a certain sense of justice to it.
He switched his phone to answering service. He radioed dispatch and put himself in the field. Then he put the car in drive.
He circled Travis Square and parked across the street from San Fernando Cathedral.
The man Etch wanted to see was doing business in front of the cathedral as usual. He was leaning over the portable cooler on his ice cream bicycle, offering a strawberry paleta to the girl who sold T-shirts at the souvenir stand.
At the end of the block, a beat cop was eating lunch on the hood of a pickup truck. A bored security guard lounged in front of the Catholic Family Center.
Hernandez didn’t think they would recognize him. It didn’t matter, anyway. This was his city, his territory. He could talk to an old collar if he wanted to.
He punched a request into his laptop, printed out some information. Then he got out of his car and walked across Mission.
“Titus,” he called.
Titus Roe had been grinning at the T-shirt seller, but his smile evaporated when he saw the lieutenant.
Roe was grizzled and lanky, with a face like crocodile leather—all greasy bumps and hard lines. He wore a red flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves to show his garden of flower tattoos—marigolds, roses,