The Mobile cops were in a particularly foul mood. Bad enough that one of their own had been murdered in such an obvious, brutal way, Mrs. Braden had made the mistake of coming to the door to see what was wrong and caught two rounds herself. The surgeons had almost saved her, but after thirty-six hours that too was over, and all the police had to show for it was a kid not yet old enough to drive who claimed to have hit one of the killers with his granddad's Marlin '39, and some bloodstains that might or might not have supported the story. The police preferred to believe that Braden had scored for the points, of course, but the experienced homicide investigators knew that a two-inch belly gun was the next thing to useless unless the shoot-out were held inside a crowded elevator. Every cop in Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, and Louisiana was looking for a blue Plymouth Voyager minivan with two male Caucs, black hair, medium, medium, armed and dangerous, suspected cop-killers.
The van was found Monday afternoon by a concerned citizen - there really were some in Alabama - who called the local county sheriffs office, who in turned called the Mobile force.
"The kid was right," the lieutenant in charge of the case observed. The body on the back of the van was about as distasteful to behold as any cadaver would be after two days locked inside a car, in Alabama, in June, but for all that the hole near the base of the skull, just at the hairline, was definitely a.22. It was also clear that the killer had died in the right-front seat, hemorrhaging explosively from the head wound. There was one more thing.
"I've seen this guy. He's a druggie," another detective observed.
"So what was Ernie wrapped up with?"
"Christ knows. What about his kids?" the detective asked. "They lose their mom and dad - we gonna tell the whole fucking world that their dad was a dirty cop? Do that to a couple of orphaned kids?"
It merely required a single look for both men to agree that, no, you couldn't do something like that. They'd find a way to make Ernie a hero, and damned sure somebody'd give the Sanderson kid a pat on the head.
"Do you realize what you have done?" Cortez asked. He'd steeled himself going in to restrain his temper. In an organization of Latins, his would be - had to be - the only voice of reason. They would respect that in the same sense that the Romans valued chastity: a rare and admirable commodity best found in others.
"I have taught the
"And what did they do in reply?"
Escobedo made a grand gesture with his hand, a gesture of power and satisfaction. "The sting of an insect."
"You also know, of course, that after all the effort I made to establish a valuable information source, you have pissed it away like -"
"What source?"
"The secretary of the FBI Director," Cortez answered with his own self-satisfied smile.
"And you cannot use her again?" Escobedo was puzzled.
