"Gage is protecting the senator?" Jose asked. "From who?"

"You know how some of these politicians get," Wayson said. "The people around them kiss their ass so hard half of them think their next stop is the White House. Makes 'em feel important to have a couple guys running around with earpieces when they sit down at a restaurant."

"Would you mind giving him a call?" Jose asked. "Ken said I could count on you. What I'd really like is if you could tell him there's some noise about the whole hunting accident, this woman defense lawyer bugging people about it. Tell him that her investigator, me, is a good shit, ex-Dallas PD, one of the guys, and the best way to get everyone home by dinner is to be nice and help me out a little. Tell him I think the whole thing is crap. Can you do that?"

"I'll tell him you're Santa Claus if you want," Wayson said. "Once I got down there-on my day off, I might add-the guy acted like I was lucky to be helping him. A weird cat. Big as a redwood, too, with that creepy old Frankenstein head. I was nice, though. Figured I was there, anyway."

Jose had a one-bedroom in a downtown building that had seen better days. He parked the truck in his lot across the street, then ran up to change. When he opened the door, he bumped into the couch, forgetting that he'd left the living room a mess from his daughter's visit two days before. They'd shuffled the furniture and draped blankets over everything, pinning them down with unopened soup cans to construct an extensive fort. Several different tunnels led to the main room of the fort, where the two of them had eaten hamburgers and French fries and where they'd watched Air Bud from a nest of pillows, ultimately falling asleep.

At Kenna's request, Jose had left the whole mess intact and moved his personal base of operations to the bedroom, where clothes and paperwork made up a soup of dishevelment. The gang clothes came off and went into the pile in the corner by the window. He sniffed the air, thinking the smell came from the clothes, but realizing the culprit lurked somewhere out in the little galley kitchen. He found his regular jeans on the bed and tucked in his T-shirt, wondering at the extra flesh that had been accumulating around his middle.

Desperate fingers plumbed the fat for the washboard within. In his mind, he did a simple calculation of the doughnuts and beer he could cut out to bring it back. He swung the bedroom door to a close, stood sideways, and sucked it in. After a determined nod, he replaced the cutoff flannel with the last garment hanging in his tiny closet, a loose-fitting white dress shirt that in his respectable years had always been teamed up with a blazer and tie. For shoes, he simply laced up the Timberland boots he'd worn open-tongued in the barrio.

Sitting on the bed, he dialed information for the Wilmer Police Department. While he didn't speak to Gage, the chief's secretary told him if he could get there before five-thirty, the chief would be able to see him. On the way out, Jose emptied the garbage to remove the bad smell. While Kenna never minded the clutter, he didn't want her to spend her visits in squalor.

Because of traffic, the drive to Wilmer took nearly forty-five minutes. Gage was in the office, and after twenty minutes he appeared in the lobby with a frown as big as his head. He extended a hand and Jose shook it, matching his grip and then weakening the way a dog will roll to its back in order not to fight, until Gage's lips evened out.

"Wayson says you're okay," Gage said, studying Jose carefully as if he still wasn't sure, "otherwise you'd be shit out of luck."

"I understand you met my lovely client," Jose said, shaking his head in the knowing way of good old boys.

Gage continued to study him. Jose held the chief's gaze, aware that the success of his trip hung in the balance. Finally, the enormous cop snorted and turned without speaking. Jose followed the chief back into his office as though he'd been politely invited.

"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.