Jackson tugged his hat brim up an inch.

“Not bad for an old man,” his companion remarked.

Jackson grinned at him. “Not too old to whip your ass.”

“Not in a fair fight.”

“I always thought that was an oxymoron. A fight’s a fight, the goal is to win.” Jackson leaned against the bumper of their 4x4.

“Sorry to hear about Duke. He was one of a kind.” The young man propped a rifle against his shoulder. They were both dressed in matching camouflage and waders.

“He surely was.” Jackson nodded. “Terrible shame. But maybe some good will come of it. Woke some people up, made them realize the enemy is already inside our gates.”

“Absolutely.” The young man nodded and spit a long stream of tobacco juice out the corner of his mouth. “If they stay this angry, we might finally push that bill through in the next session.”

“Oh, I believe you will.” Jackson watched the trainers drop the lifeless birds into a cooler before loading the dogs back in their crates. “More trouble coming, you can bet on that.”

“You think?” The young man squinted toward the setting sun. “Speaking of which, I heard a rumor the governor is naming you Morris’s replacement. That true?”

Jackson smirked. “Little birdie tell you that?”

The other man laughed. “Fine, Jack, don’t tell me. But we need more people like you up on the Hill. It’d help keep some focus on this border problem.”

“Change is coming, boy. Trust me on that.” Jackson settled back into the passenger seat with a grunt.

“Always an optimist.”

“Hardly. An optimist hopes for the best. A pragmatist makes sure it happens.” Jackson pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes again and nudged the driver. “Let’s get going. I’m fit to eat a horse.”

“Celia, I’m so sorry.”

Celia eyed her through the screen door. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Kelly had been standing on this exact spot asking for Emilio. And now the boy was dead.

“What you want?”

Kelly shifted awkwardly. It was a fair question, and one she wasn’t sure she could answer. Rodriguez didn’t know where she was-she’d slipped out of the task force room, figuring she’d come up with an excuse on her drive back. If McLarty knew she was here, he’d already be filing her termination papers. But she didn’t care. A kid had been hurt on one of her cases last fall, and still hadn’t fully recovered. Now she’d have Emilio’s death weighing on her conscience as well.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Celia glared at her. “Mi Emilito is dead.”

“I know. Like I said, I-”

“You sorry.” Celia snorted, then turned and shuffled away. Kelly took that as an invitation to follow and hesitantly opened the screen door. She glanced around. Yesterday she’d been so focused on Emilio, she hadn’t taken note of the interior. It was small, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room. Shabby and filled with secondhand furniture, but clean.

Kelly followed Celia into the living room. On top of a bookshelf sat a small shrine. Votive candles burned in front of framed family photographs: sepia-toned ancestors, a school portrait of Emilio with his hair slicked back, a younger shot of him kneeling beside a soccer ball. A dime-store painting of the Virgin Mary hovered watchfully above. In one corner an ancient television perched on wooden legs, bunny ears askew. Celia dropped into an easy chair that released an anguished gasp. She gestured to the seat opposite her. “Siéntate.”

Kelly perched on the edge of a love seat that bore the faded remains of a floral print. She crossed her hands in her lap. “I pulled the processing papers, and it looks like there was a mix-up at the sheriff’s office. Someone stuck Emilio on the wrong bus. It was a mistake.”

Celia snorted again. “No mistake.”

“I believe it was. I spoke personally with the administrator who filed-”

Celia shook her head. “This gun mi Emilito find, that gun kill the senator, yes?”

Kelly shifted uncomfortably. It was only a matter of time before that detail was leaked to the media, but for the moment she preferred to keep it under wraps. “What makes you think that?”

“My English not so good, but I clean houses here for twenty years. I see things.” Celia pointed to her eyes. “FBI involved, for a gun? Must be reason.” Kelly started to respond, but Celia cut her off. “And I know this man who die.”

“Know him how?”

“Always on television, Mexicans this, Mexicans that…” She waved a hand in the air to illustrate her point. “Then my Emilito is killed. Mix-up you say. A white man kill him.”

“It happens in jail. There are a lot of…racial tensions.”

“My friend Rosa see a van full of gringos, same day Emilito find the gun.”

Kelly furrowed her brow. “Saw them where?”

“By that house, with los Salvadoreños de perros. Early, she saw them.”

“So you’re saying there’s some connection between this van and the gun that we found?”

Celia stared her down without responding.

“Maybe they were workers,” Kelly suggested.

“Aquí?” Celia rolled her eyes.

She had a point. In a predominantly Latino neighborhood, cheap labor was rarely provided by Caucasians. “They could have been lost.”

“No. Rosa say she no like how they look.”

“Did she see them get out of the van?”

“ Rosa go to work, she must be there at seven or no more job.” Celia pointed a finger at her. “But those men leave the gun. And they kill my Emilito.”

Kelly didn’t want to point out the flawed logic-the white man who shivved Emilio was in lockup, not driving around in a van. “Okay. Can I talk to your friend Rosa? Maybe she got a license plate number?”

“She no talk to police,” Celia said with finality.

“Well, then.” Kelly stood. “Thanks so much for your time, Celia. I’m so sorry again for your loss.”

Celia’s eyes filled with tears and she crossed herself.

Kelly let herself out. As she walked to her bu-car an Eldorado cruised past, filled with teenage boys who challenged her with their eyes. One of them whistled, and another laughed. Kelly ignored them, thinking that a van full of white men would definitely stick out like a sore thumb here. But there were any number of explanations, and a canvass of the neighborhood would probably only result in more slammed doors. Still, it was hard to shake the sense that she was missing something. Why would a group of white men kill Duke Morris, their purported champion, and stow the gun at an MS-13 stash house? Sure, it had stirred up considerable interest in their cause, but to commit murder for that reason seemed excessive.

She flipped open her phone and dialed.

“Where the hell are you? I thought-”

Kelly cut Rodriguez off. “Did you ever run down where the tip came from, for the raid?”

“What, on the MS-13 house?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” He sounded irritated.

“Just do it, Rodriguez.”

“You know, I’m not your assistant, I’m your partner.”

“Fine. I’ll get someone else on the task force to do it.” Kelly gritted her teeth as she pulled away from the curb.

A pause. “You’re thinking someone wanted us to find that gun, right?”

“Maybe. It’s something we should follow up on.”

“It’s not a bad theory,” he conceded. “All right, I’ll check it out.”

As Kelly drove back to the station she tried calling Jake, but he didn’t answer. With any luck his day was going better than hers, she thought grimly as she hung up.