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wanted to emulate. Larger than life, like a movie star. The general was fifty-two, but looked ten years younger. He had an air of quiet confidence about him and would have been in charge of any situation, rank or no rank.
    “The ranch you operate is right up the road?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You have hands on the ranch?”
    “Yes, sir. A lot of my family, but we also use ten men from the village. And their wives sometimes.”
    Delgado glanced at the dead cow. “I want you to slaughter this animal and use it for food. It shouldn’t be wasted.”
    “Thank you, sir. I’ll cart it up to the ranch right—”
    “Wait a minute!”
    Everyone’s eyes shot toward the voice. It had come from the man Padilla had noticed a few moments ago stealing toward the scene from the direction of Cruz’s ranch. He was scrawny and wore a cowboy hat that seemed much too big for his head.
    “I have information you’ll want to hear,” the scrawny man volunteered.
    Padilla snuck a glance at Cruz, who seemed suddenly uncomfortable, tugging at his shirt collar and dabbing at his wide forehead with a blue bandanna. He was sweating profusely.
    “Who are you?” Delgado asked, removing a cigar from his shirt pocket, biting off the tip, spitting it into the brush, then slipping the bitten end into his mouth.
    “Hector Rodriguez. I run the next farm down,” he explained, waving with his left hand.
    “Hector, what are you—”
    “I’ll ask the questions,” Delgado interrupted, silencing Cruz. He lit the cigar and took several puffs. “What information do you have, Mr. Rodriguez?”
    Padilla saw the hint of a satisfied smile crawl across Rodriguez’s face, as if something he’d been plotting for a long time was finally coming to fruition.
    “I witnessed this man lead the cow into the middle of the road,” Rodriguez explained, pointing at Cruz. “He did it on purpose, then hid in the bushes. He wanted the cow to get hit so he could have its meat.”
    “No, no, I would never—”
    “Quiet,” Delgado ordered.
    Cruz was breathing heavily, obviously aware of the penalties he suddenly faced. Obviously guilty of Rodriguez’s charge. After all, Padilla realized, how could he have reached the Chrysler so quickly—just moments after the accident—if the cow had gotten loose on its own? Presumably Cruz wouldn’t have known about the missing animal until morning.
    Delgado moved to where Cruz stood, towering over the dairy rancher. “Is this true?”
    Cruz swallowed hard several times and shifted from foot to foot, then jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “Yes, General, but I just needed food for my—”
    “Lieutenant,” the general interrupted.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Take Mr. Cruz into custody. Take him back to the house and wait for me there. Do not let him out of your sight until I get back.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The general pointed at the little rancher wearing the big cowboy hat. “You, come with me.” Then he glanced at Padilla. “You’ll wait at the Cruz farm for me to come back, too.”
    Padilla was amazed. He hadn’t caught the general glancing at him once during the entire exchange until just this moment. Now he understood that Delgado had been aware of who he was the entire time. He’d seen that flash of recognition in the general’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”
    “Let’s go, Mr. Rodriguez,” Delgado ordered.
    Padilla watched Rodriguez follow after the general like a puppy after its mother, then glanced at Cruz again. He looked like a man condemned as the young lieutenant snapped handcuffs on his wrists and led him toward the first jeep. Problem was, that could well be the case. Cruz might well be condemned to death for what he’d done. Or spend years in Quivican—which would be worse than death.
             
    LUCK HAD BEEN with Steven Sanchez tonight. The obnoxious, whining young man from New York he’d been forced to sit next to on the plane to Miami hadn’t had a limo waiting for him after all—as Sanchez