El Gavilan (17 page)

He doffed his hat, said, “Surely.” He nodded at his door. “Mine or yours?”

Patricia smiled and shrugged. She wore sweats and a T-shirt cut short to expose her midriff. Bare feet. He wanted to pull her close; to undress her tonight and never let go. This time, he wanted to spend the night; to love her and hold her all night long. “My door’s open, Tell.”

“So it is.”

Patricia stepped back to let Tell in. She locked the door behind him. She reached out and took his white hat. “This what you wore on the Border Patrol? It’s kind of high contrast with that black uniform.”

She put his hat on her head, just like Marita used to do. Looking at Patricia standing there—with her black hair and eyes, wearing his hat as his wife had in playful moments, dark eyes looking up teasingly from under the shadow of its brim—it was far too much. Tell lifted the hat from her head and tossed it on the breakfast counter to try to make the memory go away. He kissed her forehead through her hair. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s my hat from back then. Not sure why I wore it tonight.”

Patricia shrugged, her arms around his waist now, pulling him close. “It’s a white hat. You’re a good man. The hero, right? Maybe you’re just reminding yourself of that.”

“I’m no
white hat
, Patricia. No hero like that.”

“Beg to differ, Tell.” She hesitated, then said, “If you’d let me, I’d like to visit Shawn tomorrow. He must be scared there and he doesn’t have many, if any, friends, you know. Some people just stay back from him because of what he does. And he works crazy hours since he’s about the only staff at that paper. When he’s not writing or designing pages, he’s cruising bars. I really think I’m probably as close to a friend as Shawn’s got in this town, especially now, God help him.”

“Visit him if you like,” Tell said, stepping from her embrace. He walked over to her sliding glass door and looked out at the wind-stirred willow—its draped branches pushed around by the warm night wind. “You can visit him at his place, if that’s what you want. Come morning, I’m kicking the sorry son of a bitch loose.”

“Really?”

Tell shrugged. “Able Hawk—
El Gavilan
—amassed scads of exculpatory evidence. So, Shawn will walk. At least on the murder rap. Though I think he’s pretty well through in this town. I also sincerely doubt Shawn’s denials about having slipped that dead woman the Rohypnol. Hawk doubts it too, and he’s driven to pursue it. If Shawn did drug Thalia—even if it had nothing to do with her getting herself murdered later—it’s still a terrible crime.”

Patricia stepped up behind Tell and wrapped her arms around his waist again, her cheek pressed to his back. “You’re right. In that light, I’ll keep some distance from Shawn for now. You’re right, of course too, that he’s ruined in this town. I just hope Shawn has the good sense to cut his losses and move on fast. Find himself a good position elsewhere and grow the hell up. Maybe even clean up his act.”

“That may be asking a lot of that one,” Tell said. “He has a tendency to follow his dick around. Or so Able says.” Tell hated the taint of jealousy in his voice.

“I really didn’t ask you in to talk about Shawn,” Patricia said, pulling Tell closer.

“You brought him up, Patricia.”

She released her grip and walked into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and rummaged. She said, “Maybe I did it because he was on my mind. A few hours ago, Hawk—
El Gavilan
—came and tried to ask me a lot of very personal, very invasive questions about Shawn and what he liked to do in bed.”

“I didn’t send Able to talk to you, Patricia. And I don’t want to talk about any of this.”

“Did you know he was coming, Tell?”

“I tried to talk him out of it.”

“Then you did know.”

“I tried to stop Able, Patricia.”

“You might have warned me.”

“Yeah. I might have with more time. But Hawk walked out of my place, straight down the hall, and knocked on your door. There was simply no time to give you that heads-up. I’m sorry you had to go through it.”

“I really didn’t … didn’t give him his answers. I showed Hawk the door. I think he hates me now.”

“Good for you,” Tell said. “And good on you.” He picked up his hat. “I should let you sleep. Hell, I’m exhausted myself.”

“I’m
wide awake,” Patricia said.

She pulled a small bowl of sliced limes from the refrigerator and tugged off the bowl’s plastic lid. She opened the cupboard and pulled out a saltshaker. “Drink with me, Tell.”

She poured two waiting shot glasses full of tequila.

Tell tossed his hat back on the counter.

Patricia squeezed lime juice on both of their hands—on the space between their thumbs and index fingers—and then sprinkled salt on the wet spots. They hoisted their shot glasses, entwining arms, licking one another’s hands, then downing their shots.

She said, “That’s one.” Patricia poured a second round.

“Go easy there, we both have work tomorrow,” Tell said.

“Yes, we do.” She picked up a remote control and pressed a button. Gordon Lightfoot on the stereo: “If You Could Read My Mind.” Melancholy stuff and very much his kind of music.

They downed their second tequila shots and Patricia pushed her shot glass aside. She began fumbling with the buckle of his gun belt. “Let’s finally get you out of this uniform tonight,” she said.

Tell took her hand from his gun belt. “Patricia …”

She looked up at him from beneath careless black bangs with dark bedroom eyes. For a moment, she reminded Tell of his cousin’s wife. It didn’t unsettle him. And he found that … unsettling. She said, “Tell, I want this. Don’t you want it too?”

He started to answer, but then her mouth was pressed to his mouth, her salty tongue tangling with his own. Her hands began fumbling with his gun belt again. He moved her hands and unbuckled his gun belt and placed it on the counter by the discarded shot glasses. Patricia was already working on his tunic’s buttons.

She pushed his shirt over his shoulders and it fell with a thunk to the floor—drawn down by the weight of his badge. Patricia slipped off her own T-shirt, naked underneath. Her hands went to Tell’s neck, urging his mouth to her breast. He sucked on her nipple and felt her knees tremble. She moaned softly. Long as it had been since he had been with a woman, Tell felt weak in the knees too. He said, “I should go to a store, get something.” God, he felt like a kid. It had been so long since the last time, and thinking about buying rubbers?
God’s sake.

“We don’t need anything,” Patricia said, her mouth hungry against his. “I have all we need.”

Then it was a feverish tangle, backing to her bedroom, shedding shoes and pants along the way; a wild, desperate coupling. Her kisses drew blood, her teeth nicked his bottom lip. Her short nails dug into the small of his back and his ass. She wrapped her legs tightly around him, refusing to let him pull out when it was on him. She screamed, coming with him, coaxing his body with hidden muscles.

After, tangled up and damp in one another’s arms and legs and in the half-kicked-off comforter and twisted sheets, Patricia said, “Oh God, Tell … oh God.”

She must have set the song on a loop, because “If You Could Read My Mind” was still playing, just as it had been through their fumbling, hungry lovemaking.
Heroes often fail
.

He asked, “What have we done, Patricia?”

She smiled, her lips still swollen from their hard kisses. Her black, moist eyes glistened. “We know exactly what we’ve done—just what we wanted to.”

TWENTY FOUR

Able collapsed into his favorite armchair, barefoot, still dressed in his gray uniform pants, but stripped down to a Fraternal Order of Police T-shirt up top. He’d taken a beer from the refrigerator—Pabst—and had snagged a bag of Eagle pretzels. The beer tasted of aluminum. Able thought that Tell Lyon might be onto something with his pricier, glass-bottle Samuel Adams brews.

Able sorted stacks of newspapers he hadn’t gotten to yet; found a copy of the daily with a photo of Thalia on the cover. It was a hastily cropped version of an engagement photograph. Newspaper bastards never discarded any fucking thing. And now they kept it all archived on the damned Web. Nothing ever went away anymore,
not ever
.

Well, not what you wanted to be gone, anyway. The stuff that mattered? That was lost all too easily.

Already, Able’s late mornings seemed empty.

He cast down the newspaper. No, goddamit, this wasn’t about him or anything he’d lately lost.

Thalia’s little girl, her mother—they were the real
living
victims.

That was what this was all about now. Finding the one who killed Thalia wouldn’t give the mother and daughter anything back, but they might rest a shade easier knowing the cocksucker who killed theirs no longer breathed their same sweet air.

Able could avenge Thalia’s killing. He could find her killer and kill that son of a bitch back. Hell, it wasn’t even a decision. His commitment to putting the slayer down like a mad dog was a given.

But to see to the mother’s keeping? To give Thalia’s little girl a worthy future? A different fucking challenge. One maybe beyond Able’s grasp; beyond his talents if he truly had any.

He thought again of all those late morning cups of coffee across the counter or table with Thalia.

Well, Able’s mornings were just going to be a sorry and dire fucking prospect. Christ knew Able was acquainted with the like.

He flicked on the television and found he had no patience for Leno’s or Letterman’s Bush-bashing monologues. Not that Able was a W. fan. He found the president woefully lacking stones on the immigration front. Able figured W.’s perspective on illegals had been fundamentally warped from his time playing Texas governor. And Bush had that Mexican nephew in the mix. Able finally settled on his man Lou Dobb’s rerun report—another hard-edged piece on illegal immigration and its monetary effect on the southwestern American working poor. Grist for Able’s blog.

Amos ambled out—shorts and a T-shirt. “I left the computer on and ready for you in the morning, Granddad. Type it all in, then when I get up, I’ll upload it to your blog for you.”

“Appreciate it, Amos.”

“It’s late, Gramps. You should go to bed. Try to get eight hours for once.”

“Been a bastard of a day, Amos, make no mistake on that count. Just need to unwind a bit first. You want a beer?”

“No thanks. I hate the taste from the cans.”

“Me too, lately. Remind me of that, next store trip. We’ll get some of that Sam Adams ale. It comes in glass bottles. Hi-tone stuff.”

Amos smiled. “Sure, Gramps.” He sat down on a short sofa that was starting to look a bit worn. If his grandmother had still been around, Amos knew there would have been new furniture in the house by now. He looked around, remembering the way his grandmother kept things and decided he’d sweep the carpet in the morning. And dust … especially the TV screen. The old man wasn’t good at fending for himself. Amos didn’t know what would happen to his grandfather if he moved out. Amos’s unformed plan was that Able might let Luisa and their child move in with them. The house was big enough. And God knew that it needed a woman’s touch. Amos said, “Anything new on the murder, Granddad?”

Able was pleased his grandson was taking a real interest in his work. He told Amos about how he and his deputies had cleared Shawn O’Hara of suspicion.

Amos nodded, taking it in, proud of the old lawman. “So, you have someone else in your sights? Some other suspect in Thalia’s murder?”

Able grunted, suppressing a belch. In his sheriff’s voice he said, “‘Thalia’? You knew her?”

Amos said, “Her name, it’s all over the news.” At least it wasn’t a direct lie.

“Yeah.” Able took another sip of beer and made a sour face. “No, I got nobody else yet. No other person of fuckin’ interest, to use the jargon of the day.” He hefted his beer can. “But ’tween me and Chief Lyon, we’ll get my Thalia justice. Lyon,
heh
. I suspect that bastard Lyon’s sharper than even he knows. You could do a hell of a lot worse than him for a first skipper.”

Amos’s cell phone rang.

“Your mystery girl?” Able arched an eyebrow.

“That’s right,” Amos said, backing toward his room.

“Tellin’ you, Amos, you don’t introduce me soon, boy, I’m gonna sleuth your ass come the weekend.”

Amos smiled, backing into his bedroom. He closed the door and said, “Luisa? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Amos! Sheriff Pierce is here!”

“What?”

“Sheriff Walt Pierce, he came with a … a …”

“Subpoena? A search warrant?”

“
Sí
.
Yes
. A search warrant.”

“Where are you now, Luisa?”

“Outside, at the corner, by the mailbox.”

“Good. Stay out of their way, Lu. Just stay out of their way, and maybe you’ll get by.”

“They’re in her bedroom now. They put Thalia’s sheets and pillowcases in bags. They’re searching her drawers now. Took her unwashed laundry.”

“Trace evidence search,” Amos said. “Looking for clues that might identify who killed her.”

“She never had a man in this house!” He could hear Luisa’s anger in her voice.

“I’m just saying what they’re looking for—Pierce, I mean.”

“And his men, about six of them,” Luisa said. “And the corner.”

“
Coroner
,” Amos corrected her. “Just stay out of their way and they may not think to ask you for papers. Maybe not figure out you’re not legal.”

“I will. I’m scared, Amos.”

“Call me when they leave, Luisa.” He set his cell phone to “vibrate” so his grandfather wouldn’t hear when she called back.

THEN

Marita proposed marriage to Tell. And she didn’t want to wait.

Tell didn’t require much thought before saying yes.

His superior had already told Tell that he’d identified him as “a comer.” Said he’d be recommending Tell for promotion at the first opportunity. Professionally, Tell’s future seemed assured.

Except:

Tell said, “I don’t qualify for vacation yet, so any honeymoon …”

“We’ll squeeze it in on a weekend,” Marita said, looking up into his eyes. “Then we’ll do it right,
bigger
, later.”