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of them. It’s just a hunch, but I’m wondering if Mendoza was doing a little more than his share when it comes to diversifying the country.”
    “You think he was dealing in illegal documents?”
    “We’ll see.” Santana pointed to the computer. “We should get one of the techs in here to take a look. We also need to check out Mendoza’s office downtown.”
    “I’ll give Nick Baker a heads up. Kacie Hawkins can take a look at Mendoza’s financial and phone records.”
    “You find anything in the other room?”
    “This.” She handed Santana a 4 x 8 color print. “Found it taped to the wall behind the toilet tank in the master bath. A tech took a picture of it before I removed it. I wrote my initials and today’s date on the back and logged it on the inventory.”
    Santana could see two naked men in the color photo. The man standing was photographed only from his chest down. The second man knelt before him. His face was partly covered by the other man’s hand, but the photo left nothing to the imagination.
    “The guy standing could be Mendoza,” Gamboni said.
    “If this gets out, female subscriptions for Twin Cities Magazine could plummet.”
    Gamboni tilted her head. Clearly, she had no idea what he was talking about.
    “Mendoza was on a recent cover as one of Minnesota’s most eligible bachelors.”
    “I didn’t know you read the magazine, John.”
    “Every night just before bed with my milk and cookies.”
    “Think the guy on his knees is Córdova?”
    “Maybe.”
    “You see any tats?”
    Santana looked more closely at the photo. “No, but it looks like the guy standing has an appendix scar on his lower abdomen. Given the redness, I’d say the scar was recent. I’ll have to check the autopsy report. See if Mendoza has a scar.” Santana looked at the back of the photo. “It was taken in October of last year. You find any other sexually explicit photos?”
    “Why?”
    “Well, you figure if Mendoza was into this sort of thing, there would be more photos around.”
    “Spoken like a man who would know.” Gamboni cracked a smile.
    “Right. But ask yourself this, Rita. If Mendoza really didn’t want this photo found, why wouldn’t he put it where only he had access to it?”
    “Well, if he wanted someone to find it, why not just leave it out in the open instead of behind the toilet tank?”
    “Maybe for protection. It could be that someone didn’t want this information to go public. People have murdered for less. If Mendoza gets killed, he knows someone doing a thorough search is going to find the photo.”
    “Like the police,” she said.
    “Exactly. But someone in a hurry might not.”
    “Like Córdova.”
    “Córdova or whoever else was going through the dresser drawers.”
    “You really thinking that someone killed Pérez and Mendoza and had Córdova take the fall?”
    “Leaving the .22 shell casing at Pérez’s house was real convenient.”
    “Could be Córdova was just careless.”
    “All I know is that we’ve got three dead Hispanics, two of them prominent community members. The mayor is going to want a quick resolution. Especially if the other dead Hispanic is the prime suspect.”
    “Come on, John. Give me some credit.”
    “It’s not you I’m worried about, Rita. Just keep Kehoe and the mayor’s office off my back until I’ve had time to look at all the evidence.”
    She thought about his request for a moment. “I’ll do what I can.”
    I t was midnight when Santana arrived home. Ice crystals had turned into large flakes of snow. The twenty-minute drive east on Interstate 94 from downtown to his house at the end of a narrow blacktop road in St. Croix Beach took him forty.
    The renovated brick house he owned sat on two heavily wooded acres of birch and pine on a secluded bluff overlooking the St. Croix River, which formed a natural boundary between Minnesota and Wisconsin. The previous owner had been a well-known chef in town before an ugly paternity suit took