tried Zapata. He baited you.”
“I still think he knows something,
vato.
He got the blame for Frankie’s death. Suffered bad from that gang war with White. I’m sure he made it his business to find out what really happened to Frankie. If I could just get Zapata alone, corner him for five minutes without him trying to kill my ass—”
“He makes himself hard to find,” I reminded Ralph. “We’ve got no resources. No money. No wheels. And only forty-eight hours.”
Ralph checked his watch. “Forty-
three
hours.”
The chopper thundered overhead.
I thought about what Larry Drapiewski had said:
Nobody on the right side of the law is going to help you.
And I got my worst idea yet, which was saying something, considering the banner week I was having.
I locked eyes with Ralph. “We need to find Frankie White’s killer. And we can’t do it without help.”
“There is no help. Not a single person cares enough about who killed Frankie to risk their neck.”
“I can think of one person.”
Ralph stared at me, slowly getting it. “You’re crazy.”
“Lots of resources. Plenty of clout. No love for the police.”
“And he won’t know I need killing for a whole two days.”
I spread my hands. The suicidal logic was perfect. “Let’s go knock on Guy White’s door.”
“LIEUTENANT?” MAIA ASKED.
Etch Hernandez stood at the ICU window, fingering something in the pocket of his tailored wool slacks. When he turned, Maia was sorry she’d interrupted him. His face was raw with emotion.
“They said she was a little better.” He struggled to get his voice under control. “I was hoping . . .”
He didn’t need to finish.
On the other side of the glass, Ana DeLeon lay webbed in tubes and wires. A nurse was changing her IV. Another was frowning at the heart monitor.
To believe there was a human being in the hospital bed, Maia had to concentrate on small details—a glossy black wisp of hair curled against the pillow, a smooth stretch of forearm exposed against the white sheet.
If
this
was better, Ana DeLeon was in bad shape indeed.
“Has she ever regained consciousness?” Maia asked.
The lieutenant shook his head. “The surgery—they said it went well . . .”
The nurses worked grimly, aware of their audience. Their expressions reminded Maia of jurors about to return a verdict.
In a weak show of optimism, someone had placed a picture of Ana’s baby on the bed stand. In case Ana woke up, it would be there to comfort her. There were no pictures of Ralph.
Hernandez took his hand out of his pocket. He scooped his cashmere coat off a nearby chair. “I have to go before your friend makes another headline.”
“What do you mean?”
He gave her a hard stare. “Assuming that’s an honest question? An hour ago, Navarre and Arguello set up a meeting downtown with a retired deputy, Larry Drapiewski. Drapiewski alerted the Sheriff’s Department. The hotshots in county SWAT were stupid enough to try setting a trap on their own. Without notifying SAPD.”
Maia processed this, trying not to show her anxiety. “Tres and Ralph got away?”
“After threatening Mr. Drapiewski, endangering a restaurant full of tourists, assaulting a deputy and stealing a cab at gunpoint, yes. I’ve told the sheriff I never want to see his deputies again. That’s why I’m here. I’m placing my own men in charge of guarding Sergeant DeLeon.”
Which explained, Maia thought, the dour-faced SAPD uniform who had frisked her at the door.
Hernandez put on his coat. “Our goodwill toward your boyfriend has pretty much evaporated, Miss Lee. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Why did you try to warn Ana off the Franklin White case?”
He scowled. “Who says I did?”
“Your good cop. Kelsey.”
Hernandez’s face darkened. “I’m not sure why he’d . . . I didn’t discourage Ana. I only told her it would stir up bad memories. As I said, Miss Lee, on this case, I’ve tried very hard to distance
“I still think he knows something,
vato.
He got the blame for Frankie’s death. Suffered bad from that gang war with White. I’m sure he made it his business to find out what really happened to Frankie. If I could just get Zapata alone, corner him for five minutes without him trying to kill my ass—”
“He makes himself hard to find,” I reminded Ralph. “We’ve got no resources. No money. No wheels. And only forty-eight hours.”
Ralph checked his watch. “Forty-
three
hours.”
The chopper thundered overhead.
I thought about what Larry Drapiewski had said:
Nobody on the right side of the law is going to help you.
And I got my worst idea yet, which was saying something, considering the banner week I was having.
I locked eyes with Ralph. “We need to find Frankie White’s killer. And we can’t do it without help.”
“There is no help. Not a single person cares enough about who killed Frankie to risk their neck.”
“I can think of one person.”
Ralph stared at me, slowly getting it. “You’re crazy.”
“Lots of resources. Plenty of clout. No love for the police.”
“And he won’t know I need killing for a whole two days.”
I spread my hands. The suicidal logic was perfect. “Let’s go knock on Guy White’s door.”
“LIEUTENANT?” MAIA ASKED.
Etch Hernandez stood at the ICU window, fingering something in the pocket of his tailored wool slacks. When he turned, Maia was sorry she’d interrupted him. His face was raw with emotion.
“They said she was a little better.” He struggled to get his voice under control. “I was hoping . . .”
He didn’t need to finish.
On the other side of the glass, Ana DeLeon lay webbed in tubes and wires. A nurse was changing her IV. Another was frowning at the heart monitor.
To believe there was a human being in the hospital bed, Maia had to concentrate on small details—a glossy black wisp of hair curled against the pillow, a smooth stretch of forearm exposed against the white sheet.
If
this
was better, Ana DeLeon was in bad shape indeed.
“Has she ever regained consciousness?” Maia asked.
The lieutenant shook his head. “The surgery—they said it went well . . .”
The nurses worked grimly, aware of their audience. Their expressions reminded Maia of jurors about to return a verdict.
In a weak show of optimism, someone had placed a picture of Ana’s baby on the bed stand. In case Ana woke up, it would be there to comfort her. There were no pictures of Ralph.
Hernandez took his hand out of his pocket. He scooped his cashmere coat off a nearby chair. “I have to go before your friend makes another headline.”
“What do you mean?”
He gave her a hard stare. “Assuming that’s an honest question? An hour ago, Navarre and Arguello set up a meeting downtown with a retired deputy, Larry Drapiewski. Drapiewski alerted the Sheriff’s Department. The hotshots in county SWAT were stupid enough to try setting a trap on their own. Without notifying SAPD.”
Maia processed this, trying not to show her anxiety. “Tres and Ralph got away?”
“After threatening Mr. Drapiewski, endangering a restaurant full of tourists, assaulting a deputy and stealing a cab at gunpoint, yes. I’ve told the sheriff I never want to see his deputies again. That’s why I’m here. I’m placing my own men in charge of guarding Sergeant DeLeon.”
Which explained, Maia thought, the dour-faced SAPD uniform who had frisked her at the door.
Hernandez put on his coat. “Our goodwill toward your boyfriend has pretty much evaporated, Miss Lee. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Why did you try to warn Ana off the Franklin White case?”
He scowled. “Who says I did?”
“Your good cop. Kelsey.”
Hernandez’s face darkened. “I’m not sure why he’d . . . I didn’t discourage Ana. I only told her it would stir up bad memories. As I said, Miss Lee, on this case, I’ve tried very hard to distance
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