I rolled past the house and rounded the block.

By the time I came back around, the black SUV was gone.

I parked, bounded up the steps and knocked on the door.

It opened a sliver, a steel chain between Councilwoman Rosado and me.

“Yes?” Rosado said in a mousey voice. Her eyes were red and swollen.

“Remember me, Councilwoman Rosado?” I said.

“Mr. Snow?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “August. May I come in?”

“I, uh—maybe tomorrow?” she said, unsure of herself. “Right now—it’s—not a good time.”

“Maybe it’s the perfect time,” I said. “Was that City Council President Lincoln Quinn who just left?”

Her eyes widened. “What is it that you want, Mr. Snow?”

“Seems parts of Mexicantown are on someone’s secret auction block,” I said. “A man has died because of this auction—”

“Mr. Ochoa, yes,” she said.

“So, you do know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I—I just assumed—”

“Ms. Rosado,” I said. “It’s cold. I’m tired. And it’s pretty easy to see you’re scared. Maybe Lincoln Quinn said something to upset you. How ’bout five minutes and a cup of coffee? Five minutes, then I’ll leave. No harm, no foul.”

She finally unchained the door and opened it enough for me to enter her house, but not before she checked the street for watchers.

“I—I think I’d like a drink,” she said. “May I get you a mescal?”

“I would love a mescal. Gracias.”

I actually hated mescal, but in the pursuit of information I thought it best to appear amenable to the foul stuff.

Rosado packed two tumblers with ice and gave each a healthy pour of Mezcal ManoNegra Tobalá. I suspected she needed it more than I did. By the time I’d lifted my glass to hers and said, “Cheers,” she’d downed most of her drink.

I sat in the same seat as the last time, a high-back brown leather recliner near her spinet piano. She sat on her wine-red Jacquard fabric sofa. In an effort to control our conversation, she declared, “The barrio story is you’re both benefactor and boogeyman. Which one is sitting in my house, drinking my mescal?”

“Depends on which wire gets tripped.”

She slipped a hand between the sofa cushions, extracted a Smith & Wesson S&W500 HI VIZ revolver and pointed it at me.

“Did that come with the sofa?” I said.

“What do you want, Mr. Snow?”

“Well, for starters, I’d like a pen and piece of paper, please.”

“Why?”