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seen the photo hundreds of times. It had been taken during a visit with her parents, on a typical hot, muggy San Antonio day. Isabel had stood in front of Rico, with two-year-old Danilo perched on his dad’s shoulders and pointing at the pigeons scavenging for popcorn on the sidewalk.
    Isabel sighed. “I love the place, but it seemed to give Rico the creeps. I had to make him go through it with me.”
    Eli chuckled. “He wasn’t much for history, was he?”
    She looked at him in surprise. “No, he wasn’t. I didn’t know you knew him that well.”
    “We worked together off and on over the years whenever Torres had something else going on.” Eli shrugged. “I’m sort of a history buff, especially World War Two.”
    “Really?” Isabel smiled. “I’m more into the Colonial and American Revolution eras. I was a history major until I had Danilo.”
    “How about that?” Eli turned to scan the bookcase. “You have any Stephen Ambrose stuff?”
    “I have the Eisenhower biography.” Isabel found the book and handed it to Eli. “Would you like to borrow it?”
    “Sure, if you don’t—” He looked at her, stricken. He’d flipped open the front cover, where Rico had inscribed “To Isabel, my one and only love. Happy Birthday.”
    “Eli, I don’t mind.” She bit her lip. “I’ve already read it.”
    He hesitated, but closed the book and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll be careful with it.”
    “I know you will.” She’d trust Eli with anything, though she had the sense to keep that information to herself. Enough emotional minefields had been crossed for one night. She stepped back. “So have you made any progress in locating Bryan Hatcher’s killer?”
    Eli blinked at the change of subject. “Not much. The Mexican police aren’t as efficient as we’d like. I was hoping Mercedes would tell you how she got hold of that knife.”
    Isabel shook her head. “We’ve had all we can do, just taking care of the basics. She’s so fragile….”
    Eli released a breath. “Isabel, I don’t mean to sound harsh, but that little girl is a lot tougher than most kids her age. Sooner or later we’ve got to push her for information.”
    As the widow of a border cop, Isabel knew better than most how critical time was in an investigation. Still, the idea of interrogating a traumatized seven-year-old made her sick.
    “Let me show you something, Eli.” Isabel led the way into the kitchen, then almost wished she’d had him wait in the den. Even standing in the doorway, Eli’s tall, rangy frame seemed to fill up the little room. Putting the breakfast bar between them, she picked up a sheet of first-grade tablet paper that had been lying on the counter. “After supper, Danilo and I were working on his penmanship, and I wondered how much education Mercedes has had. I wrote her name, and she copied it beautifully.”
    “Let’s see.” Eli held out a hand.
    Isabel gave him the paper and waited for his reaction.
    After a moment he whistled between his teeth and looked up at Isabel. “This is unbelievable.”
    Using nothing but the contents of a sixteen-count Crayola box, Mercedes had turned the tails and loops of the letters of her name into a garden of exotic flowers—some of which were familiar to Isabel, and some which she suspected came from Mercedes’s imagination. Subtle depth of shade gave perspective and light to the drawing, far beyond the usual ability of a seven-year-old.
    Isabel spread her hands. “This little girl is something special.”
    Eli gave her a cautious look. “Maybe so, but—”
    “There’s another one.” Isabel opened the drawer under the bar and extracted a second paper. She’d put it away because she didn’t want Danilo to see it. She slid it across the counter toward Eli, then crossed her arms over her stomach, which suddenly hurt.
    During ten years of patrolling the border, Eli had no doubt seen it all. Still, he stared speechless at the drawing for a moment. “I think we’ve