Chapter Thirteen

Well-behaved women rarely make history.

—LAUREL THATCHER ULRICH

My PI techniques would never be the stuff of legend. They would never make it into criminology textbooks or university lecture halls. But I did feel that, with some focus, I could have a strong presence in chat rooms.

If I couldn’t be a good example, I’d just have to be a horrible warning.

Cookie’s attempts to get her hands on the transcripts and class rosters from Reyes’s high school failed. It was rare, but it happened. Something about laws and confidentiality. With this in mind, I strode into the police station, a singular objective guiding me. Carrying what was perhaps too big a chip on my bruised and swollen shoulder, I ignored the wary glances and suspicious looks directed my way and walked straight back toward the interrogation room.

That’s when I heard the “Pssst.”

I slowed and looked around the station. Nothing but desks and uniforms from my vantage point. Then I looked toward the restrooms. An elderly Latina in a light floral dress beckoned me forward with a crooked finger. She had a black lace mantilla wrapped around her head and shoulders, and I would’ve bet my last nickel she made tortillas like nobody’s business. When she had been alive, anyway.

I didn’t really have time to counsel a departed, but I couldn’t say no. I could never say no. I glanced around the station and ducked into the women’s room all cool and nonchalant, not really sure why. Answering the call of nature was hardly illegal. But five minutes later, I exited the same way. Only this time I was armed to the teeth—metaphorically—and ready to make a deal.

I spotted Uncle Bob standing at the door to observation. He was talking intently with Sergeant Dwight when I strode up.

“I want to negotiate a deal,” I said, interrupting.

Dwight glared at me.

Ubie raised his brows in interest. “What kind of deal?”

“Julio Ontiveros didn’t shoot our lawyers.” Guilt poured off a person. I could sense it a mile away. And Julio Ontiveros was not a guilty man. Not of murder, anyway. And what had sounded like a gunshot coming from inside the apartment was actually his motorcycle misfiring. Apparently, he took it in at night so no one would steal it. Smart kid.

“Great,” Sergeant Dwight said, rolling his eyes. “Glad we have you to tell us these things.”

But Uncle Bob slanted his brows, lowered his chin, and eased closer. “Are you sure?”

“Are you serious?” the sergeant asked in disbelief.

Uncle Bob, in a rare moment of hostility, cast a razor-sharp scowl in Dwight’s direction that would wither a stout winter rose. Dwight clamped his jaw shut and turned his back to us to study the suspect through the two-way mirror.

“This is pretty big-time, Charley. I need you to be certain. There’s a lot of pressure on this one from the guys up top.”

“It’s always big-time. I want you to think back to the last time I was wrong.”

Ubie thought, then shook his head. “I can’t remember the last time you were wrong.”

“Exactly.”

“Ah. Right. And your deal?”

Ubie was going to love this. “If I can get him to confess his part in all of this today, right now, and turn state’s evidence on the real shooter, I need you to do two things for me.”

“This should be good,” he said.

“I need you to get an injunction to stop the state from pulling the plug on a convicted felon who’s in a coma.”

His brows shot up. “On what grounds?”

“That’s part of number one,” I said with a one-shouldered shrug. “You gotta come up with something. Anything, Uncle Bob.”

“I’ll do what I can, but—”

“No buts,” I said, interrupting him with an index finger in the air. “Just promise me you’ll try.”

“You have my word. And two?”

“I need you to go back to high school with me. And bring your badge.”

After a second jolt of surprise widened his eyes, he said, “I take it you’ll explain all this later?”

“Cross my heart,” I said, doing that very thing with my extended index finger. “For now, let’s get this guy to tell us what he knows.”

Sergeant Dwight, hearing our conversation, snorted at what seemed like arrogance on my part.

An annoyed sigh slipped through my lips. “This shouldn’t take long,” I told Uncle Bob.

Unable to stand by and do nothing, Sergeant Dwight turned around to us. “You’re not seriously going to jeopardize this entire investigation by allowing her to go in there, are you?” When Ubie just stood in thought, quite effectively ignoring the irate man, Dwight ground his teeth and stepped in Ubie’s face. “Davidson,” he said, expecting an answer.

I didn’t have time for this. While Uncle Bob dealt with Dwight the dipstick, I walked into the observation room and studied Mr. Ontiveros through the two-way mirror. The other officer in the room turned to me in surprise. Naturally, I ignored him. Julio sat in a small sparse area across from the observation room, fidgeting in his chair and glaring into the mirror. He had the basic gangbanger do—shaved on the sides, a little longer up top—and wore attitude like it was the latest thing. But fear leached from every pore in his body.

He wasn’t exactly innocent, but he didn’t shoot anyone. His fear stemmed from the thought of going to prison for something he didn’t do. There seemed to be a lot of that going around lately.