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  "Probably in the morning. But you'll have to post bail and return for trial."

  "I don't have time for a trial, sweetheart. Just fix it and I'll pay whatever the fine is. I have another assignment at the beginning of the month."

  "I'll do what I can but I can't make any promises," Cate said as she closed her pad and placed it in her briefcase. Raising her eyes to mine and holding my gaze, she said, "If this does go to trial however, I'd advise you to work on curbing that smart-ass butch mouth of yours, and let me do the talking."

  "I'll consider it." I smiled.

  Chapter Five

  AS I BACKED the Blazer out of the hotel parking lot early the next morning, I glanced at a piece of paper in my hand before turning onto the access road.

  My last call the night before had been to Wendell Pauli, a retired San Antonio vice detective. I had known Pauli since my rookie reporter days in San Antonio, and although I wasn't sure how much help a vice cop would be, he might be able to steer me in the right direction. Pauli's wife had died a couple of years earlier, and he claimed his kids had disowned him long before that. He sounded sober on the phone, but after all the years that had passed, I wasn't sure what to expect.

  The directions to his house were precise and contained only four or five turnoffs. It wasn't a great neighborhood now, but once upon a time it had obviously been at least upper middle class. Like all older neighborhoods, however, the whole area had eased, not so gracefully, into an economic decline. Large trees lined Pauli's street and had been there long enough to buckle the sidewalks in front of a few places. Most of the houses were split-level ranch-style homes, and a number of them appeared to be vacant. The newest part of each house seemed to be burglar bars. By the time I located the address Pauli had given me, I saw that it was the only house without burglar bars, almost an invitation to burglars. A low well-trimmed hedge ran from the sidewalk to the house, and there was a slight embankment broken by a couple of cement steps.

  As I rang the doorbell and waited, I noticed there was a conspicuous absence of children or children's toys in the yards of the houses along the street and guessed that most of the inhabitants were well beyond their childbearing years.

  When Pauli finally opened the front door, I almost asked if I had the right house. There was absolutely no resemblance to the Wendell Pauli in my memory bank. His head was a hairless cueball with a single, gray-black eyebrow separating his forehead from the rest of his face. He weighed at least a hundred pounds more than I remembered, and evidence of too many big meals and too many beers hung over the waistband of his pants. His black T-shirt, emblazoned with "I Love My Attitude Problem," looked two sizes too small, and a well-chewed cigar was clinched tightly between his teeth.

  He pushed the front screen door open and motioned me inside without saying a word. I followed him down a dark hallway and into a small room that had been converted into an office. As he plopped down in a well-worn leather chair behind a scarred wooden desk, I could see that he either hadn't been up long enough to shave or had decided it wasn't a top priority today.

  "You ain't changed much, Carlisle," he rumbled in a voice much deeper than I remembered, probably the result of abusing his vocal chords and lungs for decades with tobacco.

  "Can't say the same for you, Pauli. I thought I had the wrong house for a minute."

  "Have any trouble findin' the place?" he asked, ignoring my remark.

  "No. You give excellent directions," I said as I looked around the office. Dozens of city and state citations hung on the walls, but it lacked the usual personal pictures you'd expect to see. Maybe he was telling the truth about his family, and there was no love lost among them.

  "Didn't know you had a kid."

  "My ex and I adopted him so I guess I'm a step-something. I haven't seen either one of them in about fifteen years."

  "But now she expects you to bail the kid out."

  "She doesn't expect it, but she asked if there was anything I could do," I said. I knew that if there had been another human being on the planet Cate thought could help she wouldn't have contacted me. "That's why I'm here," I continued.

  "What do you expect me to do for you?"

  I took a few minutes to explain what I had already learned, which admittedly wasn't much.

  "I might be able to do somethin' about findin' out the shooter's name, and the Ivy Leaguers he runs with," Pauli said. He got up and pulled open a file drawer and thumbed through a drawerful of manila folders. "I brought copies of all my files with me when I retired," he said as he continued looking.

  "You still have informants?"

  "Every now and then I drop in on a few of 'em just for fun. If I didn't keep my hand in, even a little bit, I'd probably go off the deep end."

  He pulled five or six folders from the drawer and pushed it shut with his hip before sitting down again.

  "Tell you what, Carlisle. Let's take a run down to the precinct where they're holdin' the shooter and see if I can pick up the name. If that don't work, I'll go over to the public defender's office and pass myself off as active duty. Those damn yuppies at the PD's office never know what to do when they're confronted. If you're real lucky, they'll have a rookie assigned to the case. So leave that part to me."

  "Then what?"

  "You say you ain't talked to your kid yet?"

  "I don't want him to know his mother asked me for help," I said. "He already hates my guts. No sense in turning him against her as well."

  "Sounds like me and my family." Pauli grunted. "Okay, then I'll take that one, too."

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "I'll drop by his room and do a little interrogatin'. He might inadvertently let somethin’ useful slip about this big story he's workin' on. But honestly, Jo, illegals..." He shook his head.

  "I know. Illegals aren't a big story. It's got to be something deeper than that, Pauli. Maybe it just started with illegals and then got off into something else."

  "Got any brilliant thoughts on that one?"

  "Not yet, but tomorrow morning I'm searching his apartment."

  Pauli smiled. "I don't suppose you got permission to do that."

  "My ex gave me the key. That good enough?"

  "Nope. It ain't her apartment."

  "I'm just looking around. I won't take anything."

  "Let me know if you need any help. I got one of those spy camera gizmos if you need it. Don't have any film for the damn thing though."

  "I'll get some just in case, but there might not be anything to find."

  I stood up and held my hand out. "I appreciate this, Pauli. Let me know how much time you spend on this, and I'll reimburse you."

  He slapped my hand. "I ain't no private dick, woman. Just the fun will be payment enough. You know how much I like roustin' folks." He laughed.

  He picked up the folders and handed them to me. "Hang onto these while I get into somethin' a little more official-lookin'. You can wait in the car while I see what I can find out. Won't take long."

  Twenty minutes later, Pauli came into the living room wearing a blue two-piece suit over a white shirt and adjusting a red and white striped tie. From the look of the suit, I doubted he could button it. He had shaved the stubble from his face and rubbed at it absently. Following him out a back door and into a two-car garage, we climbed into an old, tan Chrysler Belvedere.

  With the touch of a button clipped on the visor, the garage door ground open. Pauli threw the car in reverse and backed down the drive onto the street. Cursing other drivers as incompetent morons, he broke every traffic law I was familiar with on the ride to the police precinct. I was forced to close my eyes more than once, fighting the impulse to tighten my seatbelt, and breathed a sigh of relief when he finally whipped the vehicle into the parking lot of the police station and slammed on the brakes. For a man his size, he was amazingly nimble as he exited the car and trotted toward the entrance to the building, stopping long enough to speak to a couple of officers he passed on the sidewalk. They slapp
ed shoulders and spoke briefly before he continued into the building.

  With nothing else to do while I waited, I glanced through the folders he had given me. What lay in front of me were some of the pathetic dregs of San Antonio underlife. Most were petty criminals no one would want to run into in a dark alley. By the time I finished reading the last folder, Pauli was pulling open the driver's door. He wedged himself behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition and winked.

  "Piece a cake," he said with a smile. "The shooter is one Fernando Acevedo, age eleven years and seven months. Just under the limit."

  "What limit?"

  "Once a kid turns twelve the state can declare him an adult in serious cases. Under that and juvenile detention is practically a done deal. Also got an address and mama's name. Wanna check out the homeboy's neighborhood and shake a few trees to see if anything falls out?"

  "I guess so."

  "I can do it alone if you want."

  "Is that where the shooting took place?"

  "Naw. The kid must have used public transportation, or someone dropped him off. They recovered the weapon, but surprise, surprise, no serial number. A real hunk of junk."

  "I feel dumb asking this, Pauli, but where did the shooting happen?"

  "Parkin' lot of the Light. Stupid little fuck wouldn't have been caught if he hadn't hung around a little too long."

  Pauli backed out of the parking space and drove like a man possessed until we were within a few blocks of Acevedo's address. The area wasn't just economically deprived; the economy had never reached this section of town. For a fleeting moment it crossed my mind that if I were a kid living there, I might take a hundred bucks to shoot someone, too. Drunks from the night before were still curled up in doorways and down alleys. There were plenty of children around, but none of them looked like they were on their way to school even though it was a school day. Everything about the buildings and street was oppressive. I'd seen better conditions in Fourth World countries. For a booming metropolis —the ninth largest city in the United States —prosperity obviously wasn't evenly distributed, and I wondered how many of the people living here were legal. Pauli interrupted my thoughts.

  "Say, ain't one of them folders on a guy named Mercado?"

  "I think so," I said, looking quickly through the folders again. "Yeah, David Mercado. Why?"

  "'Cause there the hunk of shit is," Pauli said, pointing to a shaggy-headed man who appeared to be in his late thirties. He was shuffling down the sidewalk wearing jeans with holes at the knees and in the back pockets. I had seen kids shell out big bucks for similar attire, but in Mercado's case, the holes were not a fashion statement.

  Pauli swung the car across the street next to the man and rolled the window down.

  "Hey, Mercado!"

  The man looked surprised, as if he hadn't seen the car pull over. A scraggly beard covered the lower part of his face, and he blinked incessantly as he looked at us. Pauli opened his door and stepped from the car. As I got out, Pauli motioned for Mercado to join us near the rear of the Belvedere. Mercado looked around to see who else was on the street before moving. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his dirty jeans and shifted his weight to one foot.

  "I heard you was retired, Pauli," he said in a hoarse voice.

  "Can't believe everything you hear, Davey."

  "Who's the bitch?" Mercado asked, nodding toward me.

  "New partner. I need some information about a case."

  "I need to get laid. So what?"

  "Looks more like you need a fix to me."

  "Hey, I'm clean now, man," Mercado said as he pulled a hand from his pocket and ran it under his nose.

  Pauli chuckled. "Yeah, right. You know a kid named Fernando Acevedo?"

  "Nando?"

  "Yeah. He lives a couple of blocks from here."

  "He got a real fine-lookin’ mama," Mercado said as he closed one eye against the sun and squinted at us.

  "He a hitter?"

  "Nando's a punk."

  "He a banger?"

  "Don't know." Mercado shrugged. "Maybe."

  "If he was, which boys would be his?"

  Mercado laughed derisively. "You goin' senile or somethin', ol' man? You know whose turf this is."

  "Conquistadors, right?"

  A nod.

  "Anybody more unusual than normal been hangin' around lately? Anybody from out of the area kickin' up a little business with the Conquistadors?"

  "Ain't seen nobody."

  "Conquistadors involved with bringin' in illegals?"

  "Shit, Pauli, they be mostly illegals theyselves. Bring more in and all they gonna do is make their own gang. Conquistadors don't need no fuckin' competition."

  "Who's in charge now?"

  "I heard Escobar."

  "Freddie?"

  Another nod.

  "Still holdin' court in the same place?"

  A shrug.

  Pauli pulled his wallet out and waved a twenty at Mercado. It was the first time he looked awake since Pauli stopped him.

  "Take this, Davey," Pauli said as he pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote on the bill. "You see anyone meetin' with the Conquistadors who looks like they don't belong here, call that number and leave a message. You get somethin' and I'll have a few more Jacksons for you."

  Mercado stuffed the bill into his pocket and continued down the street.

  "Think he'll call?" I asked.

  "Who knows? Depends on how strung out he gets. Escobar screwed him over a few years ago. He might want to get even."

  "What are you hunting for anyway, Pauli?" I asked as we returned to the car.

  "Well, sometimes outsiders who want to contract out a hit contact these morons down here to do it. It's cheaper than bringing in a pro from out of town. Of course, the results ain't as reliable, but it usually works pretty good. If your kid tripped onto something else besides your basic illegal angle, whoever is involved might have hired one of these kiddies to do the job to keep the focus on illegals rather than draw attention to themselves."

  "Sounds a little convoluted."

  "Crime gets that way sometimes," Pauli said as he folded himself back into the vehicle.

  We cruised the rest of the neighborhood before Pauli returned to his house to drop me off. He was going to the hospital to interview Kyle and then planned to convince some old pal on the force to give him access to the computer to check a few things. I gave him Sarita Ramirez's name and asked him to check her out as well. Pauli agreed to pick me up the following morning to search Kyle's apartment.

  When I got back to my room at the hotel, I placed an order with room service and started dialing numbers again. I renewed a few old acquaintances, but otherwise the calls were fruitless. Then I remembered the notebooks and scraps of paper I had taken from Kyle's desk at the Light and found them still stuffed in my jacket pockets. While I waited for my food, I spread the scraps of paper out on the bed and began going through them one at a time. Most were phone numbers and initials, and I added them to my list of phone calls just to see if anyone interesting answered. There had been two notebooks in Kyle's desk. One of them was over a year old, but the second one was at least dated the current year, and I started with it. I was about a fourth of the way through when there was a knock at my door. Grabbing my wallet, I went to the door, but when I opened it, it wasn't my dinner.

  "Did you send that fat cretin to the hospital today, Joanna?" Cate asked as she barged into my room.

  "Pauli?"

  "Yes."

  "I didn't send him, but he said he was going to ask Kyle a few questions. Why?"

  "He practically accused Kyle of shooting himself!"

  "Calm down, Cate. He's just trying to get some information."

  "Well, he's not very subtle about it."

  "Have you ever met a subtle cop? The kid won't tell you what he's working on. His girlfriend won't say, and his editor doesn't know shit. If you want my help, then we have to get beyond subtle."

  "
He insinuated that Kyle was involved in something illegal himself and that was why he was shot."

  "I didn't tell him to do that, Cate. But for all I know the kid might be involved in something illegal."

  "That's absurd! And will you stop calling him 'the kid'! He's your son, for God's sake!" She began pacing around the room with her arms crossed in front of her. She came to a halt in front of me, and when she looked at me, her eyes still had a fire in them.

  "Isn't it possible that you don't know him as well as you think you do?" I asked.

  "I know he wouldn't be involved in anything illegal."

  "Well, apparently you didn't know he was shacked up with the lovely senorita Sarita. What else don't you know?"

  She swung her hand to slap me, but I caught her wrist before she could make contact.

  "I should never have brought you into this. We were better off pretending you didn't exist," she seethed.

  If she had hit me, it couldn't have hurt any more than her words had.

  "Well, it's not too late, sweetheart," I shot back as I released her arm. "Say the word and I can be checked out of this dump in five minutes. If you want me to keep checking, I will. Then you can head on back to Susan and your clients, and let me do what I do."

  Another knock at the door interrupted our conversation.

  "Come in!"

  A young Hispanic man opened the door and brought a tray into the room. He set it on the nightstand and took the tip I offered him, closing the door as he left. As soon as he was gone, I turned back toward Cate, who was still upset and fighting to regain control of herself.

  "What's it going to be, Cate?"

  "If you stay, will you at least let me know what's going on?"

  "As long as you remember that I'll tell you if I discover anything bad as well."

  "I know," Cate said, softening her tone slightly. "But you won't find anything bad."

  "I hope you're right. Want half a sandwich?"

  The argument had caused me to lose my appetite, and I began dialing more phone numbers as Cate picked at my sandwich. After nearly half an hour, I came to the conclusion that there were way too many takeout joints in San Antonio. I rested against the headboard and closed my eyes tightly.