"Activists, radicals. I can find some. They usually come out from California, stay for a while spouting the La Raza stuff. Then they figure out South Texas isn't L.A. and they go home."
"You know anybody named Sanchez?"
"This is San Antonio, man. I know seven thousand anybodies named Sanchez.
Why?"
"SAPD let that name drop."
Berton shrugged. "I'll ask Erainya. She's been making some calls to the police."
"You worried about this at all?"
"Oh, yeah. You know the last time the FBI had something to do in San Antonio besides polish their sunglasses? They're going to love this. Even if I find this guy first, I won't have time to submit one report before the Feds come in busting heads. UTSA doesn't have much to worry about, Tres. They want to pay us to duplicate efforts, that's fine by me."
"SAPD seems to think the Feds will take a pass."
George laughed.
"That's what they said," I insisted.
George waved the comment away. "Give me a break, Navarre."
Jem kept working on the perpetual motion machine. He had one wheel that turned two others and made the top spin around like a helicopter. He was now trying to figure out how to stabilize the base.
Kelly flipped a page in her magazine. "So, Tres — you still going on that double date tonight? With your face looking like that?"
I flashed George a look to let him know I would murder him later.
He held up his hands. "Hey, Tres, I told her you were doing me an act of charity, man. That's all."
"What a guy," Kelly agreed. "Always giving. Who was the recipient last month — Annie?"
George said, "Yeah. The banker."
Kelly made her lips do a long silent M. "If your love life was a disease, Tres Navarre, it would have killed you long ago."
"You prescribe chicken soup?"
"Among other things. Not that you listen."
George cleared his throat loudly. Erainya gave him another look-of-death. "Hey," Berton whispered to Kelly, "you get tired of waiting, chica—" He curled all his fingers toward his chest.
Kelly actually blushed.
"She did great on the background files for this UTSA case," George told me. "Stuff on the professor, his family. Amazing what this girl can pull together in a morning. You know this dead professor, this Aaron Brandon guy — you know he's part of the same Brandon family that was in that thing a few years ago? "
"That thing."
I looked at Kelly for enlightenment. She didn't give me any.
"Yeah, you know." George made a gun with his hand. "Pow, pow."
"Pow, pow?"
"Yeah." George smiled, apparently satisfied that we were on the same page. "Family's got some bad damn luck. Anyway, Kelly pulled up all of that in one morning. Just on the computer. She's something."
"She's something," I agreed. "Speaking of those background files—"
"You're going to want a copy." Kelly opened my side drawer and produced a thick rubber-banded folder, plopped it in front of me. "Erainya got me started while certain other people were out getting themselves blown up. Regretfully, not completely blown up. Was there anything else?"
Her tone was super-sweet.
I said, "Ouch, already."
She batted her eyes.
Erainya hung up the phone, put her hands on her desk, and hoisted herself to a full imposing height of five-foot-zero. She looked across the office at me, her eyes black and piercing.
"So, what—?" she demanded. "You managed not to get yourself killed. You think that makes your morning successful? Come back here."
"Been nice knowing you," George commiserated.
I rapped my knuckles on his desk, then went to see the boss. I could feel Kelly Arguello's eyes on my back the whole way.
Behind every man, there is a woman whom he's successfully pissed off. Unfortunately, with me, there's usually one in front, too.
FOUR
Erainya's desk was piled high with manila case folders arranged in precarious spirals like cocktail party napkins. In the valleys between were crumpled balls of legal paper, framed pictures of Jem, two phones, investigative reference books, surveillance equipment, and the disgorged contents of several purses.
Multicolored sticky notes were slapped down here and there like stepping-stones through the chaos.
It was difficult to tell, but the project on top seemed to be a spread of brochures, glossy three-folds like mailers for investment companies. The one nearest me read St. Stephen's. Excellence Is Our Tradition. A sepia photo of an adolescent boy with glittering braces smiled sideways at me.
Erainya nodded me toward the client's chair.
She had on her usual outfit, an unbelted black T-shirt dress that hung on her body like a handkerchief over an Erector set. No makeup, no jewelry, no hose. Simple black flats.
"This is your idea of a thank-you for the nice job?" she demanded. "You get yourself detonated?"
"I'm ungrateful, I know."
She made a sideways slap at the air, a gesture of annoyance she does so often I'd learned not to sit next to her in restaurant booths. "You're lucky UTSA is keeping us on."
"Totally ungrateful," I agreed. "You arrange a teaching position for me without my knowledge, let me win you an investigative contract with the University, and I don't even say kharis soi."
Erainya frowned. "What is that — Bible Greek?"
"Only kind I know. I'm a medievalist, remember?"
"The modern phrase for 'thank you' is ephkharisto, honey. Good one to learn, seeing as I keep doing you favors."
She reached toward her spiral files, used her fingers as a dowsing rod, then pinched out the exact slip of paper she wanted. She handed me a printout of classes — medieval graduate course Lit 4963, Chaucer undergraduate seminar Lit 3213, one section of freshman English.
"Three classes," Erainya said. "Wednesday and Friday afternoons. You're a visiting assistant professor, six thousand for the rest of the semester allocated from the dean's discretionary fund. I don't call that bad."