Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(11)

Inside, a big Anglo detective was sitting at the desk, flipping through files.

Before Maia could go in, Hernandez caught her arm. “I won’t be going in, Miss Lee. But just so you know, I’ve already done as much for you as I can.”

Hernandez had aged in the last few years.

Maia had met him several times before, thanks to Tres’ incredible luck getting tangled in murder cases. She liked the lieutenant’s calm manner, his quiet professionalism. He was one of those men who had never been a father, but had clearly missed his calling.

He was still handsome, impeccably dressed, but his hair had turned the color of wet porcelain. He’d lost too much weight. The lines had deepened around his eyes.

People didn’t age incrementally, Maia decided. They went along fine for years, then hit some invisible dip and boom: a decade caught up with them overnight.

“I’m not asking for help,” she said. “Just an open mind until we locate Tres.”

“That may be difficult. Your boyfriend—”

“My client.”

“—your client made the wrong choice at exactly the wrong time. My best sergeant is in the hospital dying. The prime suspect is on the loose. Navarre is aiding and abetting.”

“Supposition. You never saw them together.”

A shout went up across the room. One of the detectives got a pointy-toed elf shoe in his face. His gun rattled loose in his shoulder holster.

“Miss Lee,” Hernandez continued, “you know Sam Barrera, the old man—”

“I know Sam.”

“He wasn’t easy to interview. Kept talking about a man with a bloody shirt in the kitchen. Kept asking if ‘the agent’ was okay. Finally we showed him some photographs. He ID’d Ralph Arguello.”

“You’re proceeding on the testimony of an Alzheimer’s sufferer?”

“It was enough for a warrant, Miss Lee. We searched your friend’s house, found a .357 and a bloody shirt stashed behind the laundry room wall. By lunchtime, forensics will have those items matched to Ralph Arguello.”

Maia bit back a curse. She wanted to strangle Tres, which in itself was not an unusual feeling, but damn it. Damn it.

She felt her blood pressure rising. A black oily ball started rolling around in her stomach.

Not now, she told herself.

The last few days, it had gotten worse. It struck at the most inconvenient times—left her curled on the bathroom floor or hunched over the steering wheel on the side of the highway. The doctors had promised her it would not get this bad so soon.

“Miss Lee?” Hernandez said.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Hernandez said. “Do you want some water?”

“No . . . thank you.”

In Ana DeLeon’s office, the big Anglo detective was still sitting behind the desk, poring through paperwork. He had a buzz of rust brown hair, a rumpled dress shirt, a brutish face. Queasily, Maia tried to remember where she’d met him before.

“Kelsey,” Hernandez offered. “Lead investigator on the shooting.”

Maia willed herself to stay upright. “Ana’s old partner.”

“Yes.” Hernandez said it without enthusiasm. “He’s a good cop.”

“He hates Tres.”

Hernandez held her eyes, trying to send a message she couldn’t decipher. “As I said, Miss Lee, the help I can offer in this situation is limited.”

“You run the department.”

“For three more weeks. I retire at the end of December. In the meantime, the brass want this case resolved decisively. An officer has been shot. It’s a miracle she lived the night and not at all certain she’ll survive. Ralph Arguello is our prime suspect. Your friend Mr. Navarre just threw himself into our line of fire.”

“You’re telling me not to expect justice?”

“I’m telling you nothing of the sort, Miss Lee. Just listen to Kelsey. Take his warning seriously. And realize that whatever breathing room I can give you, I already have.”

Hernandez turned and made his way through the rows of cubicles.

The rabid elf, now on the ground with a cop foot against his neck, spat at the lieutenant’s polished black shoes as he passed.

EXCEPT FOR THE MAJOR EYESORE NAMED Detective Kelsey, Sergeant Ana DeLeon’s office was a nice workspace. Mahogany desk. Two cushy chairs. Walls painted a cool shade of avocado. Her corkboard was pleasantly cluttered with family photos, department memos and silver milagro prayer charms.

Definitely a woman’s office.

Maia was impressed it could maintain that aura considering the amount of testosterone that must burn through here every day.

Kelsey sat behind DeLeon’s desk with his feet propped up. He had files stacked high all around him, desk drawers overturned on the carpet nearby. He was reading through a homicide casebook. The fingers on both his hands were laced with faded white scars, as if he’d long ago lost a fight with a wildcat. “Sit down, Miss Lee.”

“Making yourself at home?”

Kelsey raised an eyebrow. “I’m doing my job.”

Maia nodded toward the stacks of files. “What were you searching for?”

“Just being thorough.”

“Very thorough, it looks like.”