Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(23)

“Why?”

Santos pulled back his nine-iron. He hit the ball much too hard and watched it roll past the hole.

“Hell with it,” he murmured. “Seemed so important at the time. That’s the problem with getting old—you stop caring about secrets. The weapon marks—”

“Detective Kelsey said the murder weapon was a tire iron.”

Santos’ mouth twitched. “Kelsey knows better. But, yeah. That’s the story we decided to go with.”

“You lied in the report?”

“I was . . . vague. Had to be, or we would’ve had a war on our hands. Those marks were consistent with a very specific type of bludgeoning device. Murder weapon was never recovered, mind you, but the match was pretty damn exact. Police nightstick. The type most patrolmen carried back then.”

Maia felt as if the rain and the cold were soaking into her bones, turning her to ice water. “Did Kelsey work the scene, too?”

Santos shook his head. “As I recall, he was still on medical leave, but you better believe he scrambled to get an alibi.”

“Medical leave.”

“Few months before the murder, Kelsey had had a run-in with Frankie White. Frankie was brandishing a knife in a bar on the Riverwalk. Kelsey was a rookie, straight out of the academy. He made the mistake of trying to take Frankie’s knife away.”

“The scars on Kelsey’s hands.”

“Almost lost several fingers. Afterward, Guy White took Kelsey apart in front of his superiors. White’s lawyers turned the whole incident upside down, claimed Kelsey was responsible for using excessive force. Nearly got Kelsey kicked out of the department.” Santos sighed. “There weren’t many cops back then who hadn’t had run-ins with the White family, Miss Lee, but I’d appreciate it if you’re more careful with this information than Ana DeLeon was. I don’t like young ladies getting shot.”

Maia watched the cold rain drifting across the hills. She imagined Frankie White, the blond preppie from 1987, as a ra**st-murderer, not so different from the elf who’d attacked her that morning. She imagined the same wild light in Frankie’s eyes, the same foul breath. She could easily put herself in the place of those women Frankie had murdered, his hands closing around her throat.

“Thanks, Jaime,” she said. “I’ll tell Tres you said hello.”

“You sure you’re feeling all right?”

“I’m fine. Probably just something I ate.”

He smiled in a sad way, like he’d just come across a tender love note in the pocket of an autopsy subject. “One more question, Miss Lee, just because you can’t fool an old doctor. Does Tres Navarre know you’re pregnant?”

Chapter 6

REMEMBERING RALPH’S SECOND COUSIN was a stroke of inspiration, if I do say so myself.

Like many San Antonians, Guy White ordered large quantities of tamales for his Christmas celebrations, and Ralph’s cousin from Mama’s Cocina delivered to all of the biggest accounts. The rich Anglos loved this. It gave them the flavor of a Tejano Christmas without the trouble of actually going to the West Side and mixing with Hispanics.

At any rate, hiding in the back of the cousin’s delivery van was the only thing that got us past police surveillance—a black Chevrolet sitting across the street from Guy White’s mansion. It had tinted windows and a slapdash stenciling job that read Lou’s Electronics.

“SAPD?” I murmured to Ralph.

“Nah, they’d blend in better. I’d say federal. Not for us.”

He tried to sound confident about it—or as confident as you can be, crammed in between forty-pound canisters of hot tamales.

“FBI,” I speculated. “That execution White ordered in Louisiana.”

“I’m guessing Secret Service. The counterfeit twenties.”

“Ten bucks says FBI.”

“You’re on.”

From the front seat, Ralph’s second cousin said nervously, “I’m telling you guys, if you cost me this job—”

“No worries,” I told him. “If we get caught, you can say we’re tamale-jackers.”

I’m not sure that made him feel any better, but he pulled up to the gates of the mansion.

In one of San Antonio’s weirder architectural fantasies, the house had been built to resemble a miniature White House. I’d never been clear whether Guy White constructed the place to reflect his name, or bought it that way because it did. Either way, it was a pathetic attempt at grandeur—like a Taj Mahal model on a putt-putt course.

As we waited to be buzzed in, I tried to figure out why the grounds looked so gloomy. Maybe it was the winter fog, or the bare pecan trees. Even the Christmas tree in the windows seemed to glitter halfheartedly.

Then I realized the gardens were dying.

The few times I’d been here before, whatever the season, Guy White had taken meticulous personal pride in his gardens. Now there were no plants to speak of. No winter blooms. Just weeds and yellow grass.

A woman’s curt voice came over the intercom. Ralph’s cousin nervously announced himself.

The iron gates rolled open.

The back of the van was like a grease sauna. On either side of me, metal canisters cooked their way through my coat sleeves.

“You got a plan what to say, vato?” Ralph dabbed the sweat off his forehead.