"My dad is just working on the Rudy Espinoza shooting, nothing else."
"He blew Rudy away, didn't he?"
"I don't know about that."
Bernardo laughed.
"Bullshit."
"Fuck you."
"Is that all you know?"
"Luiza's bones haven't been identified, and the two officers who were working on the case have been reassigned."
"Does that mean they're giving up?"
"I don't know what it means."
"It sounds like it to me."
"Every case stays open until it's solved. I know that much," Orlando said.
"They're never going to solve it," Bernardo said, putting his hand on the door latch.
"Stay in touch."
"I don't think so."
"Play it that way, if you want."
Orlando shot Bernardo a hard look.
"What we did doesn't bother you, does it?"
"Worrying about it won't change anything."
"That's cold."
Bernardo got out and ducked his head inside the open window.
"You sure you don't want to keep your eyes and ears open, just in case?"
Orlando shook his head.
"I'm out of it."
"Suit yourself."
"Just split, Bernardo. I'm already late for work."
Except for a dispatcher and one officer who was finishing her end-of-shift paperwork, the district office was empty. Gabe exchanged a few words with the woman, told the dispatcher he'd stopped by to pick up some personal items, and moved on to the shift commander's cubicle he shared with two other sergeants.
He booted up the computer, accessed Motor Vehicle records, typed in Joaquin Sannstevan's name, scrolled through the file to the photograph, and printed a copy.
The photo came out grainy but usable. He stuck it in his pocket and glanced across the corridor at the vacant assistant commander's office.
He wondered if he would ever get to pin lieutenant bars on his collar and move in. Two days ago, his chances for the promotion looked good.
Now, maybe they weren't so hot, unless he could tie Rudy Espinoza to the Carl Boaz murder. With Orlando planning to leave home, he wasn't so sure he cared.
He left the office and drove down the main strip, stopping at each bar along the way, showing Sandstevan's photo and asking bartenders and customers if they knew Joaquin. None of them did.
He tried the college hangouts near the university with the same results, and dedded on one more stop at the Plaza Hotel bar before calling it quits for the night. Inside, two couples-obviously out-of-town hotel guests-were sitting together at a window table that looked out at the plaza, and three men were at the bar watching a basketball game on the wall-mounted television.
He approached the bartender and showed her his shield andjoaquin's picture.
"I know him by sight, not by name," the woman said.
"But he doesn't drink here. I haven't seen him for a while."
"Where did you see him?"
"At the monthly singles party. The local paper sponsors it. They use one of the banquet rooms in the hotel. I work them for the extra money."
"When was that?"
"Last year. Maybe April or May, I don't remember exactly. He came three or four times in a row."
"Did you see him connect with anybody?"
The woman laughed as she nodded at a customer holding up an empty beer glass and moved away to refill it.
"Are you kidding?" she said when she came back.
"Those singles events are nothing but a feeding frenzy for hustlers of both sexes."
"Do you remember anything about Santistevan?"
"He liked to hit on young, pretty girls."
"How young?"
"Young enough to card if they wanted alcohol."
"Do you know who runs the singles party for the newspaper?"