bluebonnets and cacti.
“Hi, uh . . . sir.”
Roe’s discomfort pleased Etch. He had warned the ex-con never to address him by name.
The T-shirt seller backed away. She was Latina, young and pretty, a little heavy on the mascara and hairspray. Just out of high school, probably, but Etch figured she could still sense the police aura. He was used to this effect on people—like he had some mildly frightening disfigurement that kept others from getting too close.
“I’m an old friend of Titus’s,” Hernandez told her. “Come on, Titus, pray with me.”
He put an arm around Roe’s shoulders and led him toward the cathedral.
Inside, San Fernando smelled of candles and newly hewn limestone. The recent renovations had taken the eighteenth-century mildew out of the air.
Hernandez wasn’t used to the changes. The cathedral had been falling apart before, sure, but it had been familiar—the city’s deepest taproot, an institution a year older than George Washington. Now the sanctuary felt raw, too open, too bright.
Up front, choir members were practicing a Christmas carol for tonight’s Las Posadas celebration. A scattering of parishioners prayed in the pews. Hernandez and Roe slipped into the back row by the sacristy, where a bank of votives glowed.
“I almost had a date, man,” Roe whined. “You know how long I’ve been working on her?”
“Work on her later,” Etch told him.
Roe laced his hands together. “Who you looking for?”
Etch smiled.
Roe squirmed. “What? I’ve been cooperating, Lieutenant. Shit—you know I have.”
True, Titus had given him some good leads over the years. Once upon a time, Titus Roe had been well connected, one of the busiest, if not best, assassins who worked locally.
He’d done two years in Floresville State for assault, but the only time Etch had a clear shot at busting him for capital murder, he’d let Titus go.
The hit had been a drug lord on the East Side—not exactly a loss to society. By sheer luck, Etch had found the murder weapon, tied it to Roe beyond a reasonable doubt, then set the evidence aside after explaining to Titus that it could come back anytime if he failed to cooperate. Since then, Titus had been a valuable informant.
“The Franklin White murder,” Etch said.
“Aw, hell, Lieutenant. I didn’t have shit to do with that. You think I’m crazy?”
Etch ignored the question. Of course, Roe was crazy. “You got any idea who did it?”
Roe’s eyes drifted toward the front of the cathedral, where the choir was singing “Adeste Fidelis.”
“Um . . . none,” Roe said. “None.”
“People are looking into it,” Etch said. “Last week, Sergeant DeLeon. Now other people are stirring things up.”
Roe’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“Maybe the person who did the crime should be nervous.”
He offered Roe the slip of paper he’d printed out.
Roe read the information. He moistened his lips, stared at the crucifix above the altar. “Lieutenant . . . what exactly do you want?”
“Loose ends are difficult, Titus. That old gun of yours, for instance—if it should ever be found, come to the attention of the DA . . .”
Titus shivered. “I’m trying to go straight, Lieutenant. If this is some kind of test—”
“It’s absolutely a test, Titus. I need a solution. I need to retire next month, understand? And when I do, your problems retire with me. You’ll have nothing to worry about but selling paletas and dating the T-shirt girl.”
“I—I can’t.”
“You can,” Etch told him. “You’ve got no choice. Now memorize that paper and light a candle with it, you understand?”
Etch left him in the pew. When he looked back, Titus Roe was praying almost as if he meant it.
• • •
ETCH DROVE NORTH.
He passed Hildebrand, turned into Olmos Park, past Guy White’s mansion on Contour. A mile further into the basin, he passed the wooded ridge above the dam where Lucia and he had once sat talking, the whole city spread below them, bloodred in the sunset.
Cops weren’t supposed to fall in love on the job. They weren’t supposed to break the law, or hate criminals, or kill, either.
Etch had tried to follow the rules.
He’d failed miserably.
After Lucia died, he’d thrown himself into the career track. He made lieutenant, just like she said he should.
The higher he rose in the department, the more he realized that professional ethics were like Kevlar vests. Cops wore them only because they were required to. They were supposed to be good for you, but what beat cop hadn’t slipped off the damn vest once in a while, just to get rid of the scratchy hot confinement?
Etch vowed never to