the way most people do the first time they see a corpse—like an acrophobic sneaking up to the railing of a balcony. He nodded at Schaeffer, then looked sideways at Julie.
"They want to know about how much longer it'll be." He said it apologetically, like they were being unreasonable. "She committed suicide in the bursar's parking space."
"What suicide?" Schaeffer said.
The big guy frowned. He looked down uncertainly at the gun in Julie's hand, then the little hole in her head.
Schaeffer sighed, looked at me.
"She was shot from a distance," I explained. "You shoot yourself pointblank the wound splits like a star. Plus the entrance and exit wounds here are angled down and the calibre of the gun is probably wrong. The shooter was up there somewhere." I pointed to the top of a campus building where there was a series of big metal airconditioning units making steam. "She was carrying the .22 for protection. Fired it when she was hit because of a cadaveric spasm. The bullet's probably embedded in the dashboard."
Schaeffer listened to my explanation, then waved his free hand in a soso gesture.
"Make yourself useful," he told the campus cop. "Go tell the bursar to park it on the street."
The big man walked away a lot faster than he'd walked up.
A crime scene unit detective came over and pulled Schaeffer aside. They talked. The CSU guy showed Schaeffer some ID and business cards from the dead woman's wallet. Schaeffer took one of the cards and scowled at it.
When Schaeffer came back to me he was quiet, drinking Red Zinger. His eyes over the thermos cup were the same colour as the tea, reddish brown, just about as watery.
He handed the card to me. "Your boss?"
The words LES SAINTPIERRE TALENT were printed maroon on gray. Cantered underneath in smaller type it said: MILO CHAVEZ, ASSOCIATE. I stared at the name
"Milo Chavez." It did not invoke feelings of goodwill.
"My boss."
"I don't suppose you came across any reasons why somebody would want to kill this lady. And don't tell me the fucking demo tape was that good."
"No," I agreed. "It was not."
"You look for large debts, irate boyfriends—the kind of background work real P.I.s do when they're not minding threeyearolds?"
I tried to look offended. "Jem's a mature fouranda half."
"Uhhuh. Why meet somebody here? Why drive the seventyfive miles from Austin to San Antonio and park at a junior college?"
"I don't know."
Schaeffer tried to read my face. "You want to give me anything else?"
"Not especially. Not until I talk to my client."
"Maybe I should let you make that call from a holding cell."
"If you want."
Schaeffer dug a red handkerchief the size of Amarillo out of his pants pocket and started blowing his nose. He took his time doing it. Nobody blows his nose as often and as meticulously as Schaeffer. I think it's how he meditates.
"I don't know how Erainya got you this case, Navarre, but you should shoot her for it."
The Widower's Two it Step 11
"Actually I know the agent's assistant, Milo Chavez. I was doing Chavez a favour."
Ray Lozano was talking with the paramedics about how to move the corpse. The crowd of college kids outside the police tape was getting bigger. Two more uniforms were leaning on the side of my VW now, watching Jem put his magic rings together.
The cowboy fiddle tunes were swinging right along on Miss Kearnes' cassette deck.
Schaeffer finally put his handkerchief away and looked down at Julie Kearnes, still clenching, her .22 like she was afraid it might jump out of her lap.
"Hell of a favour," Schaeffer told me.
All the way back to the North Side I had to give Jem a lecture about not taking bets on magic tricks from the nice policemen.
Jem nodded like he was listening. Then he told me he could do six rings at a time and did I want to bet?
"No thanks, Bubba."
Jem just smiled at me and pocketed his three new quarters in his OshKosh overalls.
It would've been faster to take McAllister Freeway back to Erainya's office, but I headed up San Pedro instead. Going north on the highway, twenty feet off the ground the whole way, all you see are the hills and the Olmos Basin, a few million live oaks, an occasional cathedral spire, and the tops of some Olmos Park mansions. Clean and forested, like there's no city at all under there. San Pedro is more honest.
For about two miles north of SAC, San Pedro is the dividing line between Monte Vista and the