Chapter One

The photo of Sheryl Rogers on the ten o’clock news was a before picture. Even the hardened reporter from channel four had insisted the pictures of the dead girl taken at the scene be edited from the video. "A tragedy in our city this evening. Twenty-one year old Sheryl Rogers, a University of Texas, Austin student, was killed by a hit and run driver in front of her parents’ house on the far Northwest Side of San Antonio. Police say they have found no witnesses to the hit and run and, at this time, have no clues as to …"

McGrath grimaced at the television, quickly reached for the remote and punched the off button. The picture of Sheryl Rogers and the story of her being killed by some stupid-ass, probably drunk, hit and run driver struck too close to his own loss years earlier.

Sheryl Rogers was an extraordinarily beautiful girl. That is, before the old gray pickup smashed her body against the stone mailbox pillar. Then, the attractive college senior lay crushed and ugly, in a pool of blood at the side of the quiet residential street. Although Sheryl stayed in Austin during the week, she nearly always spent her weekends at home with her mother. At first, it seemed but one of those sometimes coincidental occurrences, which cost Sheryl Rogers her life. This particular weekend, her mother had gone out of town, and it was the first time in several years Sheryl had collected the mail from the box next to the curb. Now, what remained of Sheryl Rogers lay awaiting an ambulance to take her to the morgue, the handful of mail she’d pulled from the box scattered and bloody, in the street.

Television reports, the newspaper story and, indeed, the police report said a hit and run driver killed Sheryl Rogers. If it hadn’t been for the supposed hit and run driver confiding his guilt to a friend two weeks later, when he’d again had far too much to drink, it might have remained one of the many unsolved hit and runs occurring in San Antonio each year.

***

Harry Denton was well known for two things at a number of sleazy clubs around town. First, he always seemed to have plenty of money to throw around, freely buying drinks for the house. His other claim to fame was being a mean, crazy son of a bitch. He was built like a truck and highly skilled in the martial arts. Harry Denton, when it suited his purpose, could be Mr. Charm, himself, but he seldom had that urge. Mostly, he expected people to kiss his ass and bow to him, because he came from a wealthy family. Besides, he knew he could whip any three people in the place.

The closest thing he had to a friend was Jose Perales. And the only reason for this friendship was because Jose had refused to back down, when Harry was hell bent on kicking the shit out of him. Although Jose was slightly built, he grew up in a tough area of the West Side and knew his way around bullies and how to deal with them.

When Harry lost four straight pool games and a hundred dollars to Jose, he was fighting mad, but Jose pulled the .38 from under his shirt and, with a smile, told Denton, "You know, Harry, you shoot pool like shit, amigo. You really shouldn’t play an expert like me. That’s some free advice. But, to get to more serious shit, Senor, I will blow your fucking head off, if you fuck with me."

Harry had stood poised, ready to strike for a full minute, trying to stare the man down. But Jose stood his ground, the thirty-eight hefted loosely in his hand and a belittling grin on his face. Finally, Harry said, "You got guts, amigo. Lemme buy you a drink. You’re right. I shouldn’t play another man’s game."

Jose wasn’t really a bad guy. He just plain refused to take any crap off anyone. Half the guys he went to school with were now in prison for one thing or another, but either Jose didn’t get involved in anything illegal or he was too smart to get caught. Of course, carrying the revolver was illegal, but it was sometimes a necessary way to get a threat to back off in the neighborhood in which he grew up. Strangely, he and Harry became close, without being what one might call friends, confiding in one another about all their conquests with women, and even went out hunting for a quick lay together a number of times. Every time Harry got drunk and was about to pick a fight with someone, Jose would simply walk away. Most often, it ended with the same routine. The police would be called, Harry got carted off to jail and his daddy bought his way out of it. But, Harry always insisted on paying for their nights out, so Jose kept running around with "the madman," as he came to call Harry. Having grown up so poor the poor people looked down on him, as he enjoyed telling people, Jose wasn’t one to turn his back on freebies.

Then, one night, Harry was uncharacteristically quiet and subdued, as he drank his way into intoxication. They were in a booth at the back of Wild Willie’s Watering Hole, sitting without speaking for some time, just watching who came and went and sucking on their long necks. Finally, Harry leaned as far across the table as he could and said in a low voice, "Gotta tell ya somethin’, Jose."

"Sounds like you got a big secret to share, amigo."

"Damned right it’s a big secret." His eyes blinked the fact that he was pretty well out of it, and his slurred speech confirmed what his eyes revealed. "Lemme ask ya somethin’, Jose. You ever kill anybody, man?"

Jose shrunk back and quickly said, "Madre Mia! Shit no, man. Why do you ask something like that? You drunker than usual?"

"Hell, no, I ain’t drunk. Just gotta tell someone about somethin’."

Jose had leaned close across the table, but now he threw his head back and laughed loudly. "You ain’t gonna tell me you killed someone, you crazy fuckin’ Gringo?"

"Goddammit, man, keep it down." He stared at Jose a moment, his finger pressed to his lips, then slowly nodded his head up and down and waggled his finger. "You ain’t gonna snitch me off if I tell you, are you?"

"Hey, man, I ain’t no damned snitch. Shit no, I ain’t gonna tell nobody. What the hell you talkin’ about, anyway?"

Harry wavered back and forth in the booth, his eyes closed momentarily, and Jose thought he was going to drop off to sleep. But, he again leaned across the table and said quietly, "Ya know that girl that got smeared out in Rolling Oaks a couple weeks ago? That Sheryl Rogers? I did that, man. Didn’t mean to. So damned drunk, I just ran right over her and smashed her all ta hell, man."

Jose stopped himself at the last second, as he started to say, "You knew that girl, man." Instead, he told Harry, "Aw, don’t bullshit me, amigo. You wouldn’t pull a stunt like that. Besides, the newspaper and TV said they were looking for an old gray Chevy pickup. You ain’t got a truck like that."

"Hell, I don’t. That’s why I’m tellin’ you this, man. I need your help. Gotta get rid of that truck."

Jose was beginning to think this crazy Gringo was serious. "Where is it?"

"You gonna help me get rid of it?"

Harry Denton looked at him with squinted eyes that scared Jose. Every time he’d seen Harry look at someone that way, all hell broke out. He’d better humor him.

"Sure, I’ll help you, if you ain’t just tellin’ me a big bunch of bullshit, mi amigo."

"Damned straight I ain’t bullshittin’ you, man. I got it parked inside my old man’s warehouse out on thirty-five. Got it all covered up good, but I can’t figure out how ta get rid of it without some nosy ass spottin’ me and callin’ the cops."

Jose rubbed his chin, staring at Harry a moment, then said, "No problem, Senor. See, what we do is, we get a big moving truck. You know, one of them kind you rent. We mount a big block and tackle to the floor and drag your pickup inside. Then, we take it and dump it where no one will find it. Maybe down in the desert by Laredo, man. We leave it in the right place, those ladronuezlos from across the border will make it disappear real quick, a piece at a time. While we’re on the way, you can get in the back and clean it real good to get rid of your fingerprints."

"You think that’ll work?" Harry was bobbing around so drunk, he was about to fall over in the booth.

"Look, amigo, you let me drive you home. You’re too damned drunk, and you damned sure don’t wanta get stopped by no cop before you get rid of that truck. I’ll come get you tomorrow, and we’ll go get a truck. We’ll get the block and tackle rigged up over at my amigo’s welding shop. Tomorrow night, we’ll get the truck and take it south. You can get in the warehouse at night, can’t you?"

Harry moved his head up and down, as he yawned.

"C’mon. Let me get you home, amigo."

Jose helped him out of Wild Willie’s and into the passenger seat of the Corvette. He’d only been to Harry’s house once, but with a few garbled directions from Harry, who was snoring loudly by the time he pulled into the drive of the three million dollar house, he found it. After shaking Harry awake and helping him to the door, he quickly backed the Vette out of the drive and headed for the police station. Jose supposed Harry hadn’t remembered telling him he was trying to get this Sheryl Rogers to go out with him, but she wouldn’t give him a tumble. Harry had been pretty drunk at the time. Now, he supposedly ran over her and killed her by accident? Jose would never have put the girl he saw on television and Harry together if Harry hadn’t brought it up. Hit and run my ass. Not too damned likely, amigo.

***

He walked into the downtown police station in his usual partying outfit - tight fitting designer jeans that showed exactly how much he had up front, two hundred-dollar silk western shirt, and genuine Don Remero rattlesnake cowboy boots.

The man on duty at the front desk eyed him suspiciously and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah, man." Jose nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot, as his eyes darted around the big lobby. "Look, man, uh… who do I talk to about a murder?"

As the desk sergeant stared at him for what seemed an eternity, Jose continued to nervously shift his weight from one foot to the other and tried to avoid the cop’s eyes. Finally, the overweight, desk-bound cop leaned back, crossed his arms over his fat belly and asked, "What are you talking about? What murder?"

"That Sheryl Rogers girl. The girl who got run down and killed a couple of weeks ago. You know about that?"

The cop squinted his eyes and stared at Jose. "Naw, I dunno nuthin’ ‘bout no girl gettin’ murdered. Whataya talkin’ about?"

"Couple of weeks ago. This here girl, Sheryl Rogers. She was getting her mail outa the mailbox and got run over. Killed the shit outa her, man. Television and newspaper said she was just one a them unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, like when a drunk came down the street and hit her. It wasn’t no hit and run, man. It was murder. I know the guy who did it."

The cop, obviously not sure if what Jose was telling him was important or just the talk of a stupid, drunk Mexican, lifted a receiver and pointed at Jose. "You stay right there. Don’t move." He punched in a couple of numbers and said, "Got a guy here wants to talk about a murder." After a moment he said in a sleepy, disgusted tone, "Hell, I don’t know." As he replaced the receiver, the fat cop said, "Someone’ll be here in a minute. You better not be jivin’ me, Senor. Homicide guy comin’ downstairs hates practical jokers."

Jose paced back and forth across the dirty marble floor of the reception area, nervously cracking his knuckles. After some three or four minutes, three uniformed cops and a suit, much in need of pressing, surrounded him, and the wrinkled suit asked, "What’s your name?"

"Jose Perales, Junior."

"What’s this about a murder?" He stood with his feet spread apart, his arms folded over his chest, and a skeptical look on his face.

Jose, being an immaculate dresser, couldn’t help but notice the cop’s shoes were in as bad a need of attention as his wrinkled suit and rumpled shirt. "That girl who got run over out in Rollin’ Oaks. You know, the one who was gettin’ her mail and got run over. I know the guy who did it, and it wasn’t no accident. It was deliberate. He ran over her on purpose, man."

The wrinkled detective glanced around at the other officers, a barely detectable grin on his face. Finally, he said, "Tell you what, Senor, you come on up to my office and you can tell me all about it."

Two of the uniforms followed up the steps to the second floor and into the detective’s office, where he waved Jose to a chair, then sat down at the desk and punched a tape recorder on. Leaning back in his chair, his hands cupped behind his head, the homicide detective heaved his feet to the top of an overflowing wastebasket. "Okay, tell me all about it. First, tell me your name again and your address." His tone of voice conveyed his disgust with having to go through the motions of what would surely turn out to be nothing.

Jose was just as sure the fat cop wasn’t believing an obviously West-Side Mexican until he mentioned Harry Denton. When he spoke Harry’s name, the detective suddenly sat forward and asked, "Did you say Harry Denton? How do you know him?"

Jose shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to one side. Might as well tell it the way it is. "We’re sorta drinking buddies."

"And Denton told you he ran over this girl?"

"Look, Senor, Harry told me about, uh… maybe a month and half ago, that he had been tryin’ to get inta this girl’s jump suit. She gave him the ice cube treatment. Harry gets real pissed if he doesn’t get his way about anything. He wasn’t too damned happy about it. In fact, he was real mad. Tied on a good one that night. Tonight, Harry got real drunk. I don’t think he remembered telling me he knew that Sheryl Rogers, but he told me he accidentally ran over her. Said the pickup he hit her with is stashed in his old man’s warehouse out on thirty-five. Wanted me to help him get rid of it. You gotta get him in jail, man. He’ll kill me if he finds out I came here."

"Tell you what I’m gonna do, Senor Perales. I’m going to call the detective assigned to that case at home and get him down here. You do know it’s four in the morning, don’t you? Slater’s gonna be a really mad sonofabitch, if you’re jivin’ us."

"Madre Mia, why would I do a thing like that? You think I’m loco or something? You think I’d walk in here and tell you such shit about Harry if it wasn’t true? Harry’s loco, man. He finds out I came in here and told you this shit and there was nothin’ to it, he’d damned sure kill me. I’m tellin’ you, Senor, Harry Denton killed that girl on purpose!"

He must have been emphatic enough with his pronouncement, because Mr. Wrinkled Suit detective called Jim Slater at home and evidently got his ass chewed royally for waking the lazy jerk. Jose had never had a problem with any cops, but wasn’t really all that gung-ho to declare them nice guys, or have any of his friends know he came to the police station voluntarily, without benefit of being under arrest. Growing up where he did, it was dangerous to even speak kindly about a cop, much less talk to a cop without being forced into it. But when Detective WS asked if he’d like a sandwich and a coffee, he thought maybe he wasn’t so bad after all and accepted his kind offer.

An hour later, a not-too-happy Homicide Detective Sergeant, James Slater, arrived, looking as if he’d been out on a binge, himself. When Detective WS greeted him, all he got was a grunt, and Slater plopped his rather ample butt on the edge of WS’s desk. "Well, Senor, what’s your story?" He blinked his eyes and continued trying to rub the sleep from them. "Dam’, I hate getting woke up in the middle of the night. This better be good."

Jose read the derision in his voice and instantly knew this Gringo didn’t like Mexicans. "Why don’t you have the sergeant there play his recorder for you? I already told him the whole story."

"Hey, how ‘bout you just humor me, and tell me first hand."

"I don’t think you like Mexicans much, do you, Senor?"

Jose thought he’d gone too far with his remark, when the Gringo quickly rose from the desk and stood over him. But Detective Wrinkled Suit had turned his recorder on. Slater slowly turned around, as he stared at the recorder and listened. Jose liked old WS more all the time.

When the tape had finished playing, Slater sat on the edge of the desk once more and told one of the uniforms to get an exact address for the warehouse on Interstate thirty-five. Ten minutes later, with the address in hand, he called the Patrol Division Watch Commander and told him he needed ten officers to raid the warehouse. Then he walked out the door without so much as a thank you to Jose. But he stopped in the hall and pointed his finger at him. "You wait right here ‘til we have a look at that warehouse, Senor Perales."

WS asked, "You think you got enough probable cause?"

Slater again pointed at Jose and shrugged his shoulders. "Won’t be the first time I screwed up, if we don’t. Keep your amigo here. He’s my alibi."

When Slater was gone, Detective WS introduced himself. "Listen, my name’s Johnson. Ray Johnson. Don’t pay no attention to Slater acting like an asshole. He doesn’t really mean it. He’s just had a hell of a caseload lately and ain’t solved a damned thing. And you’re wrong about him not liking Mexicans. His wife is Mexican. Mexican from Mexico." Detective Johnson smiled and said, "If that truck’s out there, where you say it is, he’ll likely come back and kiss you."

Jose stood up, stuck his hands in his back pockets and laughed. "Oh, no. I don’t think so, Senor. If that ugly gringo thinks he’ll kiss Jose Perales, I’ll leave right now."

Detective Johnson laughed along with him and said, "He is kinda an ugly sonofabitch, ain’t he? Let’s go downstairs and get some more coffee. Since we hafta be here, might as well."