Tequila Sunset by Sam Hawken Page B

to write it down?”
    Cristina frowned. “Ready,” she said.
    Felipe Morales gave her his phone number and then hung up without saying another word. Cristina held the phone for a moment, as if expecting him to come back on, but he was gone. She put the receiver in the cradle, then picked it up again.
    Robinson returned. He had three doughnuts and a pair of little cocktail napkins. He put one of the doughnuts, a chocolate glazed one, on a napkin and placed it on her desk. The others he kept for himself. “What’s up?” he asked.
    “Nothing. I don’t know. I just got a weird call. Give me a minute.”
    Cristina held the receiver between her shoulder and cheek as she looked up Coffield’s number. She dialed and waited a long second before the line clicked and the phone at the other end started ringing.
    “Texas Department of Criminal Justice – Coffield Unit,” a woman answered.
    “Yes, my name is Cristina Salas with the El Paso Police Department. I have an odd question: do you have someone there named Lance Harcrow?”
    “Yes, ma’am. Assistant Warden Lance Harcrow.”
    Cristina flicked her gaze toward Robinson, but he was eating. Little crumbs fell on his desktop and he swept them away with his hand. “Would it be possible to speak with the Assistant Warden?”
    “May I tell him what it’s regarding?”
    I don’t know , Cristina thought. She said, “I wanted to ask about Felipe Morales.”
    “Hold on one moment.”
    It was more than a couple of minutes before someone picked up again. A man’s voice came down the line, deep and unmistakably accented, Texas-style. “This is Assistant Warden Lance Harcrow. Who am I speaking with?”
    “My name is Cristina Salas, I’m a detective with the El Paso Police Department. I was told to call you by someone named Felipe Morales. Do you know the name?”
    “Before I say anything, Ms. Salas, I’d like to get your number there.”
    Cristina gave it to him.
    “I’m going to hang up now and call you back. Wait for my call.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Cristina put down the phone. A weird sensation passed through her, made of confusion and curiosity. She saw Robinson looking at her. “What is it?” he asked.
    “I’m still not sure.”
    “Well, who’s Lance Harcrow?”
    “An administrator at Coffield Unit.”
    “The prison unit?”
    “Yeah.”
    The phone rang and Cristina picked up. “Salas,” she said.
    “Detective Salas, it’s Lance Harcrow. I hope you don’t mind the runaround, but I had to make sure you were really calling from the El Paso Police Department.”
    “I understand, sir.”
    “Now, you were asking about Felipe Morales?”
    “That’s right. I got a phone call from him just a few minutes ago, wanting to meet with me. He gave your name as a reference. Do you know him?”
    “Yes, I do,” Harcrow said. “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you do for the police department?”
    “I’m a part of the gang unit.”
    “Well, that makes sense.”
    “How’s that, sir?”
    “Felipe Morales is a member of Barrio Azteca. He was also a confidential informant during his time here at Coffield.”
    “He was a CI?”
    “Yes, and pretty darned good, too. We got a lot of useful information out of him. He helped us keep track of our Aztecas, even the ones that are hard to pick out.”
    Across from Cristina’s desk, Robinson was interested now, listening. His second doughnut was uneaten. He made a questioninggesture with his hands. Well?
    Cristina put her hand over the mouthpiece and said, “It’s good.”
    “We let Felipe out on parole just last week,” Harcrow continued. “Put him on a bus back to El Paso with his PO’s name in his pocket.”
    “Do you have any idea why he’d want to contact me, sir?”
    “I expect he’s got something to share.”
    “How cozy was he with your Aztecas?”
    “He was right in the heart of it. Got real close to our local Indian chieftain. We could have put Enrique Garcia in Ad Seg and let him rot there, but