Rojas smiled. His teeth were as brown as the beer bottle he was sucking on. "They told everyone who would listen that they were in it for the money."

"So you knew them."

"A little. From afar. They liked to tell everyone that they were big, bad hombres who had done terrible things, important things." He sucked on the bottle-didn't drink from it, just stuck the long neck in his mouth and popped it in and out of his cheek. "Personally, I always thought they were full of shit."

"So I guess you didn't make any plans to catch up with them when you all came home to San Antone."

"Like I said, we weren't really friends."

Rick pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. Rojas took it, rolled it tight as a cigarette, then blew through it, making it sound like a kazoo.

"The cops gave me fifty," he said.

"The cops have already been here?"

"Oh, yeah." He smiled at Rick's consternation. "They even asked the same kind of questions, but they were nicer to me. Much more respectful."

"What did you tell them?"

"How can I give to you for twenty what I gave to them for fifty?" Rojas asked sweetly, as if he were a man who dedicated his life to such questions of fairness and ethics. Trejo pulled out another twenty, and a ten, which Rojas tucked into his waistband, like a stripper saving tips in a G-string.

"They said they had money coming to them, when they got out. They said they were set for life."

"You told the cops all this."

"Maybe." Rojas had now unfurled one of the twenties and was edging it in and out of his teeth, like a wide piece of dental floss. Tess felt sorry for the unsuspecting cashier whose hand might one day close over this bill. "Maybe I told them more, told them about the things that Darden and Weeks bragged about, the things they never got popped for. I don't know, abogado. Every day is the same for me, you know. I just sit on the porch and watch the little children go by. It's up to me to put some variety into it. Variety is the spice of life. Or so they say."

A woman's shadowy form appeared at the screen door. "Quienes son, Alberto?" she called sharply.

"Señor Trejo, my wonderful, wonderful lawyer, and some grandota," Rojas replied. "Remember Mr. Trejo? The one you paid all that money, so you could have me back home, chained to you like a little monkey?"

A torrent of Spanish poured out of the woman. At first, Tess thought Mrs. Rojas was berating Rick, but she soon realized the angry words were for her own son. They didn't seem to affect him at all. Smiling, he stood, pretended to hand one of the twenties to Rick, then snatched it back, still smiling.

"Wouldn't it be funny, abogado, if I used this very bill to get a little girl to come into the yard?" he said. "There are a few who walk by my fence every day. All I have to say is, ‘Want to make some money? I'll give you twenty bucks. Come around to the back of the house, I have something to show you. Shhh, shhh. Don't tell. It's our secret. C'mon, it will feel so good. You make me feel good, then I'll make you feel good. But don't tell anyone. They wouldn't understand. Grown-ups don't want you to know how good you could feel. But I do. I do.'"

He turned and climbed the porch steps, whistling a pretty little melody, letting the screen door bang behind him. His mother's harsh, frantic words rained down on him, but Rojas didn't seem to hear her.

"My money's on his mother," Rick said, his voice light, his fists clenched at his side. "She'll never let him out of her sight again. I can only hope she outlives him."

"How could you represent someone like that?"

"Because it's my job," he said. "And because his mother goes to church with my aunt, and I couldn't say no when my aunt asked for a favor."

"Still-"

"The police caught Al driving a stolen car, then coerced a confession out of him about the assault on a neighborhood kid. The confession was inadmissible, and I got it thrown out. I have to defend all my clients to the best of my ability, Tess. I have to fight for the Al Rojases of the world as hard as I'm going to fight for Crow. Would you have it any other way?"

For the first time in their short acquaintance, Rick's speech had lost its slightly arch, ironic quality. Tess scuffed her toes along the sidewalk, thinking about what he had said. She wanted to protest: But Crow is innocent. Nothing came out.

Back in the car, speeding away from Mr. Rojas's neighborhood, she said: "So Texas has a Megan's law, too."

"A what?" Rick had been lost in his own thoughts.

"A Megan's law. One of those laws designed to inform people when a child molester moves into the neighborhood. That's some small comfort."

"Such laws don't apply to Rojas. Didn't you hear? He had a real sharpie for an attorney, who pleaded him down to grand theft, auto. He's got no record as a child molester."

"So how did those fliers go out with his photo? How did the school find out about him, and the local shops?"

"I really couldn't say, although I do happen to have a brother-in-law who owns a print shop near here. Someone might have dropped off a photo of Rojas, told him when he was coming home, given him a mailing list."

Tess smiled. "Of course, a lawyer could never do anything like that, even to a former client, because he would risk being disbarred."

"Of course." Rick started to whistle, then stopped abruptly when he realized the melody he had picked up was Rojas's sprightly tune.

Chapter 16

They had breakfast at a west side cafe, a dingy place that didn't look open from the street, and didn't look particularly safe from within. Rick recommended something called migas, and the combination of cheese, eggs, and sausage was so good that Tess quickly regained her lost appetite. Rick had been right-an empty stomach was the only way to talk to Al Rojas.

"Sorry you didn't like it better," he said, pushing away his half-eaten meal even as Tess was wiping her plate clean with a flour tortilla. She wasn't embarrassed. After all, that's what the jump-roping was for.

"I've never had anything like this. Most Mexican food in Baltimore is so…perfunctory. I mean, you know you're in trouble when the best place in town has something called ‘Los Sandichos' on the menu. And the Mexican place near my house has a wait staff of Estonians. Here, I could make a meal from the tortillas alone. They're incredible."

Rick looked puzzled. "They're flour and lard. You could make them yourself. Anyone could."

"Theoretically." She also could solve simple physics equations if she put her mind to it, but that didn't mean she was going to start anytime soon.

He paid the bill, helping himself to a handful of pralines and bright candies. The same "Mexican candies" the clerk in Twin Sisters had offered her, only fresher-looking here.

"Something's bothering me," he said as they walked to his car

"Rojas?"

"Darden and Weeks. Twenty years is a long stretch, and Texas has an overcrowding problem. I wonder why they didn't get parole."

"Ask Guzman."

"I'd be happier if Guzman didn't know what we're thinking about. Guess I could call someone on my Christmas card list, see what they know."

Rick headed back into the city, stopping in yet another neighborhood Tess had never seen, an old-fashioned business district surrounded by a residential neighborhood. The houses were large and gracious, but most of them had been converted to apartments, or made over into businesses. Rick bounded up the steps of a hot pink Victorian.

"Y Algunas Mas," Tess said, reading from the hand-painted sign over the door. "Se venden milagros."

"And Something More," Rick translated, his lips twitching slightly at her Spanish pronunciation. "We sell miracles."