orchestrated accident.
Maia might be able to find a solution in two days, but she didn’t know the city or the local police like I did. And if I showed my face, I’d be arrested.
I needed a cop I could trust—somebody inside the system who could find out what the hell was going on and wouldn’t arrest me on sight. Despite the fact that my dad had been Bexar County Sheriff back in the eighties, my list of friends in active law enforcement was regrettably short.
An answer came to me, but I didn’t like it.
I stared at the river. Maybe if I jumped in, I could wake myself up. I’d find myself back in Southtown, Sam reading the Saturday morning paper while Mrs. Loomis cooked bacon in the kitchen.
I sighed. “Let’s go,
Ralphas.
”
“Where to?”
“Back to the phone. I’ve got an idea that’ll probably get us killed.”
• • •
LARRY DRAPIEWSKI WAS WAITING FOR US at Mi Tierra—an outside table, just like I’d told him.
The shops on the plaza were just opening up, sunlight melting the frost off the windows. Sleepy mariachis tuned guitars by the fountain. Except for pigeons and one tourist family braving the cold, we had the restaurant patio to ourselves.
Larry pointed to the extra breakfast plates he’d ordered.
He kicked out a chair for me. “Wasn’t enough you shot a doctor this week, huh? You’re riding a shit avalanche, son.”
“Good to see you, too, Larry.”
Since retiring from the Sheriff’s Department, Larry had gone completely gray. He’d gotten a hearing aid, grown a scraggly beard and cultivated a potbelly. He looked like Santa Claus after boot camp.
Ralph sat across from him and spread a napkin in his lap. He started heaping huevos rancheros into a tortilla.
Larry glanced at him with distaste. “Tres, if your father could see you now—”
“Can you help us or not?” I asked. I’d already told him everything over the phone. Some of it he’d already heard from cop friends. None of it seemed to surprise him.
Larry ran his finger around the edge of his Bloody Mary glass. “Your friend here is a killer.”
“You can talk to
me,
Drapiewski.” Ralph took a bite of eggs. “I speak
inglés.
”
Larry’s eyes turned steely. I remembered something my dad had said once about Larry Drapiewski being better than a cattle prod when it came to scaring the shit out of suspects.
“Arguello,” he said, “if it wasn’t Tres asking me this, if I didn’t owe his father my life a dozen times over—”
“My wife. Can you get me in to see her or not?”
Larry stared across the plaza, toward the parking garage where we’d come in. “Not possible.”
“Your guys work hospital security when an officer is shot,” I said.
“We rotate with SAPD. Professional courtesy. The answer is still no.”
“Is Ana stabilized?” I asked.
“She’s still alive. That’s all I know.”
“Then she needs protection,” Ralph said.
Larry glared at him. “Why do you think the cops are on round-the-clock guard duty, Arguello?”
“And if the guy who shot her is a cop?”
Larry blinked. “You’re some piece of work. Why don’t you be a man and turn yourself in? You have a daughter to think about.”
Ralph started to get up.
I grabbed his arm, pushed him back into his seat. “Larry, promise me you’ll keep Ana safe. Promise me the deputies looking after her are good men.”
“I’m retired, Tres.”
“Every man in the department owes you something.”
He sipped his Bloody Mary, checked his watch. His eyes drifted again toward the parking lot. “I’ll do what I can. In exchange, Arguello surrenders.”
“We’re talking about Frankie White’s murder,” I said. “You know what’ll happen to Ralph once word gets out.”
“He made that bed.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “You must’ve heard something about the case back then—some rumor. Something.”
“This is
Maia might be able to find a solution in two days, but she didn’t know the city or the local police like I did. And if I showed my face, I’d be arrested.
I needed a cop I could trust—somebody inside the system who could find out what the hell was going on and wouldn’t arrest me on sight. Despite the fact that my dad had been Bexar County Sheriff back in the eighties, my list of friends in active law enforcement was regrettably short.
An answer came to me, but I didn’t like it.
I stared at the river. Maybe if I jumped in, I could wake myself up. I’d find myself back in Southtown, Sam reading the Saturday morning paper while Mrs. Loomis cooked bacon in the kitchen.
I sighed. “Let’s go,
Ralphas.
”
“Where to?”
“Back to the phone. I’ve got an idea that’ll probably get us killed.”
• • •
LARRY DRAPIEWSKI WAS WAITING FOR US at Mi Tierra—an outside table, just like I’d told him.
The shops on the plaza were just opening up, sunlight melting the frost off the windows. Sleepy mariachis tuned guitars by the fountain. Except for pigeons and one tourist family braving the cold, we had the restaurant patio to ourselves.
Larry pointed to the extra breakfast plates he’d ordered.
He kicked out a chair for me. “Wasn’t enough you shot a doctor this week, huh? You’re riding a shit avalanche, son.”
“Good to see you, too, Larry.”
Since retiring from the Sheriff’s Department, Larry had gone completely gray. He’d gotten a hearing aid, grown a scraggly beard and cultivated a potbelly. He looked like Santa Claus after boot camp.
Ralph sat across from him and spread a napkin in his lap. He started heaping huevos rancheros into a tortilla.
Larry glanced at him with distaste. “Tres, if your father could see you now—”
“Can you help us or not?” I asked. I’d already told him everything over the phone. Some of it he’d already heard from cop friends. None of it seemed to surprise him.
Larry ran his finger around the edge of his Bloody Mary glass. “Your friend here is a killer.”
“You can talk to
me,
Drapiewski.” Ralph took a bite of eggs. “I speak
inglés.
”
Larry’s eyes turned steely. I remembered something my dad had said once about Larry Drapiewski being better than a cattle prod when it came to scaring the shit out of suspects.
“Arguello,” he said, “if it wasn’t Tres asking me this, if I didn’t owe his father my life a dozen times over—”
“My wife. Can you get me in to see her or not?”
Larry stared across the plaza, toward the parking garage where we’d come in. “Not possible.”
“Your guys work hospital security when an officer is shot,” I said.
“We rotate with SAPD. Professional courtesy. The answer is still no.”
“Is Ana stabilized?” I asked.
“She’s still alive. That’s all I know.”
“Then she needs protection,” Ralph said.
Larry glared at him. “Why do you think the cops are on round-the-clock guard duty, Arguello?”
“And if the guy who shot her is a cop?”
Larry blinked. “You’re some piece of work. Why don’t you be a man and turn yourself in? You have a daughter to think about.”
Ralph started to get up.
I grabbed his arm, pushed him back into his seat. “Larry, promise me you’ll keep Ana safe. Promise me the deputies looking after her are good men.”
“I’m retired, Tres.”
“Every man in the department owes you something.”
He sipped his Bloody Mary, checked his watch. His eyes drifted again toward the parking lot. “I’ll do what I can. In exchange, Arguello surrenders.”
“We’re talking about Frankie White’s murder,” I said. “You know what’ll happen to Ralph once word gets out.”
“He made that bed.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “You must’ve heard something about the case back then—some rumor. Something.”
“This is
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