She studied me for a long moment. 'I'm standing on top of a land mine here. I don't need you to tell me how much powder is in the mine. I need you to disarm the damn thing.'
'Honey, you're coming at this from a totally parochial position. You already have a theory and you want my investigation to confirm it. That's not the way to go about it.'
She sighed and her expression softened.
'I'm through investigating Hidden Ranch anyway,' I said to mollify her. 'I'm now working my way from the center out. Sheriffs are still in control of all the lab and CSI evidence. I talked to a labbie in their forensics division named Robyn DeYoung. She's the evidence tech for Hidden Ranch and she isn't too eager to follow through on any of my requests. That has to change. I want them to look for the dog and the bomb shelter.'
'Okay. I'll make you a deal. I'll unstick that, and I'll see if Smiley's in our academy apps, but you have to start concentrating on whether ATF or the sheriffs are lying.'
We both sat back in our chairs and stared across the linen tablecloth like fighters who had gone into neutral corners.
'I can't promise you anything,' I said. 'I gotta take this where it leads.' Then I smiled and said, 'Still love me?'
'Jesus!' she snarled.
'An easy mistake. But no, I'm Shane,' I teased.
We got home at ten and found Chooch studying in his makeshift room out in the garage. 'Have fun?' he asked.
Neither of us answered.
I got a beer while Alexa went to work in her office, answering e-mails. I was sitting in the living room, trying to focus on the eleven o'clock news, when Delfina came in and stood in the doorway.
'Shane?' she said, and I glanced over at her. She had her hair pulled back in a barrette and was holding our adopted cat, Franco, stroking his orange and white fur softly.
'How you doing, Del?' I said. 'Thought you had a big chemistry test tomorrow.' She was a junior, and chemistry was definitely not her best subject.
'I do,' she smiled, 'but I need to talk to you about Chooch.'
I grabbed the remote and turned the volume down.
'Come on.'
I led her out onto the patio. She followed silently behind. We settled into two chairs in my favorite spot overlooking the narrow canals with their Disneyesque bridges. She put Franco down and immediately the marmalade cat began to wind around my ankles.
'I've been talking to Chooch about that job coaching kids,' she said.
'What's he think?'
'A lot of things are bothering him right now. He's afraid if he doesn't stay with his own football practices at Harvard-Westlake his coach will get angry and not play him, even when his foot heals. I told him that is not so. He is much better than his replacement. But he is unsure. He's also afraid if he takes over Mr. Rojas's team and doesn't do a good job you'll be disappointed. He wants you to respect what he does, but he is torn. He's afraid to make a decision. I'm telling him no decision is the same as a decision, because they'll get somebody else to be the coach. He needs to make up his mind.'
'What do you think?'
'I'm worried about him, Shane. He's not like before. He's not the happy person now. I think it's very important that he does something to take his mind off his troubles.'
'It's why I suggested this in the first place.'
'I think I can get him to say yes,' Delfina said softly.
'How?'
'I'm his chavala.' She gave me a knowing, worldly smile. 'I think, if you tell them now that Chooch will coach the team, I can get him to say yes in a day or two. Then we will have done a good thing.'
'But we will have done it behind his back.'
'He is un marvilloy you know that. But he is also sometimes acting the spoiled little boy. This will be good for him and for others. Sometimes with boys you must give them just a little push to help them decide. You get the job, and I will get the coach.'
I smiled at her. Franco looked up and meowed loudly. So, of course, with both of them so vocally on the record, there was nothing much I could do but agree. 'Yo te acuerdo' I said.
It was late, but I took a chance and called Sonny Lopez. He was still up. When I threw Chooch's name at him he thought it was a great idea, and said he'd check with the league office and get back to me.
An hour later Alexa and I were slamming around in our bedroom, getting ready for bed. Finally she got in on her side and I got in on mine. We pulled the covers up and I snapped off the lights.
'Yes,' she said.
'Yes, what?'
'Yes, I still love you.' Then she rolled over and looked at me, propped up on one elbow. I could just barely see her in the ambient light coming through the window. A beautiful, dark-haired vision. 'It isn't about you and me, it's about tactics,' she said.
'Honey, I know you're getting pressure from Mayor Mac and Salazar, as well as Tony and Bill. I know you think I just wasted one whole day reinvestigating things that didn't need to be investigated. But this is how I do it. If I don't put all the jigsaw pieces on the table, I'll never solve the puzzle.'
She scooted over, put her arms around me and held me tight. 'I just hate arguing with you,' she said softly, 'even when you're wrong.'
I held her, smelled her hair, and felt the soft textures of her body. I decided I'd rather make love than war.
So that was what we did.
Chapter 12
When we got there Billy Greenridge from SRT was dead in a vertical coffin. His feet were still inside the living room, his large body spilled headfirst across the threshold, half in and half out of the front door of his house. The back of his head was a pulpy mess, dripping blood and brain matter onto the oleander bushes that grew just under the railing.
It was nine-fifteen the following morning.
The house was a small, wood-shingled, California Craftsman in the Rampart Division. Rampart is inside LAPD jurisdiction, so, although Greenridge was a fed, for now it was an LAPD crime scene. However, if they pressed, I knew ATF could take it away. He was their murdered agent.
Alexa and I arrived in separate cars from Parker Center. We parked and found three LAPD tech vans already on the scene, along with four LAPD black-and-whites. There were two unmarked cars with federal license plates. I recognized the ATF ASAC, Brady Cagel, already up on the porch looking down at his dead agent. Eight LAPD blues and two other men not in uniform formed a choir around the body. As I approached, I realized that the two non- uniforms were also members of SRT. Gordon Grundy was on Cagel's right, tall, square-headed, and rawboned. His stoic face looked like someone had painted a straight-line mouth and gunmetal eyes on a block of granite. Next to Grundy was stocky Ignacio Rosano, whom I remembered from the bar fight. I'd learned he was called Nacho. The LAPD uniforms were trying to get the three feds off the porch, but the Justice Department agents didn't seem inclined to cooperate.
'Here's our division commander.' One of the LAPD blues said, pointing at Alexa as we walked up.
Brady Cagel pulled out his shield and badged us. 'You guys don't belong here,' he said, 'I'm claiming the crime scene.'
'All my uniformed people who don't have a reason to be up here right now, get off this porch and secure the
