"I got a redheaded bitch for a sister-in-law," Gage said, sitting back in his chair, taking up his bayonet paperweight and throwing his big boots onto the desk. "One's enough."
"I hear you," Jose said, eager to prove they were of the same mind. "She's not fun, but she's plugged into a lot of those society people, pretty much my pipeline for work. So, when she asked me to come down here and look into this guy's death, what could I say? I spoke to Wayson. He said all good things about you, and I figured we could work together on this one. You know what I mean?"
Gage smiled, pointed his bayonet, and said, "I always called you guys PTs instead of PIs. Peeping Toms. Must make a hell of a pot of money to stop being a cop for that."
"Right," Jose said, forcing a smile. "Anyway, I don't want to bother you any, but she's got this Mex girl raising her skirts."
"You look half Mex yourself," Gage said, using the point on his teeth.
"Dad's family came over in 1821," Jose said without missing a beat. "So he said he figured he'd get a little leeway."
"And you do," Gage said with a magnanimous wave of the blade. "Not too many Texans who don't have a Mex up their family tree somewhere. What do you wanna do? She'll get the goddamn report anyway. Not quick, but she'll get it."
"Nothing really," Jose said. "Maybe take me out to where it happened so I can say I was there, saw it, and the whole thing couldn't have been nothing but an accident."
"And that'll make her happy?" Gage said, his face giving nothing away.
"She's a lawyer," Jose said. "I'm a cop-or I was. She'll be happy."
"You can even take her the report," Gage said, swinging his feet off the desk and rising up. "Let her know it's all Momma's cooking. Save me a stamp."
Gage took a folder from the top of his pile and handed it over to Jose, who took it, half-rolled it, and swatted it against his leg as he got up, too.
"Let's go," Gage said, taking his hat off the antler of a dead deer mounted on the wall and fixing it on his head. "We'll have you home for dinner."
CHAPTER 22
ISODORA WORE A WHITE COTTON SHIFT, HER OWN CLOTHES. She held Paquita tight, rocking her back and forth as she stood on the tarmac waiting in the long line of Mexicans boarding the unmarked gray plane. When she saw Casey, her face lit up and she angled her little girl's face so Casey could see her.
"She's beautiful," Casey said.
"Thank you so much, Miss Casey," Isodora said.
"I feel like I didn't do anything," Casey said.
"I have her. That's all I need."
"What will you do in Monterrey? Do you have family there?"
"No, but Maria gave me some money," Isodora said. "I'll find something. I heard a man talking about a new soap factory outside the city. Maybe I can get work."
"Who'll watch Paquita?"
A worried look crossed Isodora's face and she shook her head, signaling that she hadn't thought that far.
"I want you to sign this for me, Isodora," Casey said, handing her the fax and a pen. "I'm not giving up. When you get to a place, I want you to call me. Call collect."
Casey took the signed release back and handed Isodora a card that she examined, then tucked into the small bag hanging from her shoulder.
"You won't forget?" Casey said.
"Will you?" Isodora asked.
One of the ICE agents yelled something and they turned to see the tail of the line disappearing up the metal steps.
"No," Casey said, and watched her go.
Despite her law clinic's steady downward spiral in property value and the embarrassing condition of her car, Casey had been able to hang on to the one luxury that mattered. When she first came to Dallas, she'd purchased a condo out in Las Colinas, across from the Omni Hotel. Beyond the grass and the tree-lined sidewalks, two long buildings with brick storefronts snuggled up to the canal that ran between them. Brick pavers and wrought-iron balconies jutting from the expensive condos above gave Casey the feeling of Venice the moment she saw the place.
The refuge of the six-story buildings blocked out the sound of the passing freeway and allowed the songs of mockingbirds, blue jays, and house finches and the occasional complaint of a mallard down on the water to float in through the curtains, waking Casey just before sunrise. She had purchased the spacious two-bedroom unit with cash, opting out of a mortgage so she'd always have a place to call her own.
Because of the fine hotel just across the wide boulevard, the small, almost secret neighborhood had more good and different restaurants than it deserved, including a Japanese steak house, a fine Italian restaurant with black-tie waiters, a small sports bar, a French bistro on the canal, and a Lone Star Texas chili joint, as well as the unusually good food at the Omni.
By the time she returned from the airport through the rush-hour traffic, Casey was ready for the chili joint and a couple of cold bottles of Budweiser. She showered, put on a V-neck T-shirt and jeans, and headed out the back door. Hers was one of the few units to have a small private stairway leading out onto the canal. As she left, she gave the door to her condo a half-hearted shove closed. She followed the brick sidewalk under a walking bridge, then rounded a corner, entering a wide alleyway that led to the restaurant.
Noise from the chili joint washed over her. The place was jammed, but the hostess recognized her and led her to a corner table not too far from the open doors where luckier diners sat out on the patio under red and white umbrellas. On the opposite side of the room, a long-haired blond cowboy with a drooping mustache strummed away on an acoustic guitar. When he looked up and noticed Casey, he crooned "Tequila Sunrise" without taking his deep blue eyes off of her. She couldn't help smiling, but it was to herself, not him. She dialed Jose, hoping to catch him and invite him for a drink, but got no answer.
When the chair across from her scraped along the plank floor, she looked up to see the cowboy singer before turning back to her steak.
"I like your music," she said, "but you don't want my husband to walk in here right now. He's the jealous type."
"Just trying to be friendly," the cowboy said, nodding at her empty beer bottle. "Can I buy you another?"
"I'm serious. He's a cop."
"No harm meant," the cowboy singer said, raising his hands in surrender and getting up.
"None taken," she said.
After a thick mug of coffee and a brownie with ice cream that she shouldn't have had, Casey tried Jose one last time before paying the bill and heading for the door. The sounds from the restaurant had died down, and when she rounded the corner Casey could hear the steady plunk of water dripping from some unknown source into the still water of the canal. Clouds of bugs flickered under the street lamps and the dark pockets between lights along with the dripping water made Casey shiver and pick up her pace.
When she got to her door, she realized that not only hadn't she closed it tight, but she hadn't left a single light on inside. She halted on the stoop and eased the door open, peering into the blackness, straining to see the stairway she knew to be there.
That's when someone reached out from the dark entryway and grabbed her arm.
CHAPTER 23
YOU WANT ME TO RIDE WITH YOU?" JOSe ASKED, FOLLOWING HIM out the door.
"Better off taking yourself," Gage said. "We got to pass the highway, and when we're done you'll want to just keep going."
The chief told his secretary that he'd see her tomorrow, and then told Jose he'd pull around front to meet him. Jose climbed into his truck and stuck the handheld GPS into the front left pocket of his jeans, covering it with the tail of his shirt. He waited along the street until he saw Gage whiz past in a brown-and-beige cruiser. He took off after him, spinning his wheel and stamping on the gas, and wondered the whole way if the chief was trying to have some fun with him.