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officer’s report.
    A brief handwritten paragraph described the first response to a motorist’s 911 about a body on the side of a rural South Side road, just after 10:00 P.M., July 14, 1987.
    At the bottom, the signatures of the first two officers at the scene: Herberto Hernandez, Lucia DeLeon.
    Maia looked up. “Ana’s mother?”
    “First female class of cadets,” Kelsey said. “Twenty-seven years on the force. There’s a plaque with her name in the main hallway.”
    “Hernandez was her partner. That’s why he’s distancing himself from the case?”
    Kelsey seemed to think about that. He looked like he was about to say something, then changed his mind.
    “Ten days ago,” he told her, “Ana was rotated to cold case duty. She could’ve picked any file she wanted, but she saw her mom’s name on that report . . . sentimental bullshit. She decided to poke around in it. Hernandez and I both warned her she’d get more than she bargained for.”
    “Meaning?”
    Kelsey creaked back in the chair. “Ana started asking around, found out Franklin White had been arguing with a young . . . ah, business associate right before he got whacked. Wasn’t common knowledge, but the two guys had acquired some pawnshops together. This friend was the front man, Franklin was the money. The friend stood to gain if he could get Franklin out of the picture. Franklin got whacked. Within six months, his former business associate was the number one owner of pawnshops in San Antonio.”
    “Ralph Arguello.”
    “Jackpot.”
    Maia felt her dizziness getting worse. She’d be damned if she’d give Kelsey the satisfaction of seeing her pass out. “If that’s true—”
    “If?”
    “Why didn’t anybody put Arguello and the victim together sooner?”
    “He and White were real careful not to advertise their business relationship. Still, Arguello was one bold SOB, starting his career by whacking Franklin White. Dangerous game, considering Franklin’s dad.”
    “Who’s his dad?”
    Kelsey stared at her. “I forgot you’re an out-of-towner. Maybe this doesn’t mean anything to you. Franklin’s dad is Guy White.”
    Maia’s heart fluttered. She had a flashback to several years ago—Tres taking her on a case to a mansion where even the butler carried a gun.
    “Guy White,” she said, “the most powerful mobster in South Texas.”
    “Please, Miss Lee.
Private businessman.
Mr. White donates to orphanages and shit. Just because his enemies for the last thirty years have all turned up in the river—”
    “Guy White’s son was beaten to death in 1987 . . . his only child?”
    “Only son. Got a younger daughter, but Frankie was the golden boy.”
    “And the case was never solved.”
    Kelsey smiled. “Well, see, you got a mob boss with lots of enemies. Somebody whacks his son. You think the detectives at the time were going to bend over backward trying to figure out what happened? Best guess, White’s big rival in town, Johnny Zapata, ordered the hit. Zapata controlled most of the Latino side of town. White was muscling in. Anyway, White blamed Zapata for the hit. After Frankie died, San Antonio saw its biggest gang war ever. The homicide rate spiked by thirty-five percent. If you’re the police, you’re not going to go out of your way to find another scapegoat for Frankie’s murder. Unless, of course, you’re Ana DeLeon, and you can’t stand loose ends . . .”
    “The DNA under the victim’s fingernails?”
    “Results came back two days ago. Positive on Ralph Arguello. Ninety-nine point nine percent.”
    Maia looked around the room for something to concentrate on besides Kelsey’s smirk.
    She hated hopeless cases.
    For years, she’d known that Ralph Arguello was bad news. She had never understood how a woman like Ana DeLeon could get involved with him. And she’d been secretly relieved when Tres and he had started to drift apart.
    She focused on DeLeon’s corkboard—a picture of Ralph and Ana with their baby girl