Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(26)

“Enough, Madeleine,” Mr. White said.

The demon girl’s foot eased off my back. She yanked me to kneeling position, dragged me backward and shoved me into a plush armchair. Next to me, Ralph got a similar treatment from Alex the goon.

Guy White stood in front of us, staring out his library windows.

His back lawn spread to the horizon. The workers were everywhere, setting up the tent and the banquet tables and the Christmas decorations on the denuded grass.

“It’s been a long time, gentlemen.” Mr. White turned.

He had once been a handsome man—tan, blue eyes, trim figure. He loved spending time in his garden. He boasted of never being sick. At forty, he’d looked twenty-five. At sixty-two, when I’d last seen him, he could’ve passed for fifty. A local curandero once assured me Señor White had made a pact with the devil for eternal youth.

Now, as he was approaching seventy, it looked like the devil had decided to collect.

His gaze was as fierce as I remembered, but the skin under his eyes was translucent. His lips were colorless. He reminded me of a corpse with a light inside.

“Lymphoma,” he said, answering the question I didn’t dare ask. “I don’t make many public appearances these days. Not to worry, however. My doctors are quite optimistic.”

His eyes glittered as if this were deeply humorous. “Now, gentlemen, enlighten me. What do you claim to know about my son’s murder?”

“Sir,” Madeleine protested.

White held up his hand.

He gave me a smile that might’ve been mistaken as kind, if you weren’t used to dealing with reptiles. “You must excuse Madeleine. She believes I’m easily taken advantage of. A dying man, still doting over a dead, worthless son.”

“Sir, I never—”

“You’d never say so to my face,” he agreed. “You don’t need to.”

Alex cleared his throat. “I tried to tell her, Mr. W. I thought you should make the call.”

“Your sensitivity to my wishes is appreciated, Alex Cole.”

“Sir,” Madeleine said, now gritting her teeth, “the last private investigator—”

“Yes, my dear. The last private investigator took my money, taxed my health, played my hopes for nothing. But you paid him accordingly, did you not?”

White offered me another cold smile.

I wondered what lake that PI was floating at the bottom of.

“I understand from the news you are both wanted men,” White told us casually. “Shot your wife, did you, Mr. Arguello?”

“No, patrón,” Ralph replied. “I didn’t.”

Mr. White gave him a sympathetic look. “You put me in an awkward situation. I have my annual Christmas party tonight. I must keep up appearances, you know. Show my, ah, business associates I’m still alive. On top of this, I have the Secret Service hovering outside my house.”

“Secret Service?” I asked.

Ralph looked at me. “You owe me ten bucks.”

“My point, gentlemen,” White said, his voice a little frostier, “is that I have enough to worry about. Why should I not, as a law-abiding citizen, turn you in to the police?”

“We were friends of Frankie’s,” Ralph said. “You know that.”

White studied us. What Ralph said was technically true. In my case, “friends” was pushing it, but I tried to look, well . . . friendly.

“My wife,” Ralph said, “Ana DeLeon—”

“The homicide detective,” White said.

“—she was reopening Frankie’s murder case.”

White tugged the cuff of his Turkish bathrobe. “I knew nothing of this.”

“Ana had a fresh lead. She was getting ready to make an arrest when somebody shot her.”

“The police say you shot her.”

“’Course they do.” Ralph’s voice was raw. “The police hate my guts. They didn’t want Ana reopening your son’s murder case, ’cause they hate your guts, too. But Ana was my wife. I’d never shoot her. The person who shot her was the suspect. Frankie’s killer.”

Ralph’s gaze was so steady even I was impressed.

Guy White cupped his hand, as if to gather the pale winter light coming through the window. “What do you propose?”

“Sir, no,” Madeleine protested.

“I need to find this guy to clear myself,” Ralph told Guy White. “You want to find him, too. We have a common goal.”

Madeleine exhaled. “Sir, they have nothing to offer you. We’ve tried . . . you’ve tried for eighteen years. If there was a way—”

“All we need is some discreet help,” I put in. “Wheels. Clothes. Firepower. Your leverage to open a few doors. What have you got to lose?”

White pondered this. His face gleamed from the tiny effort of speaking with us. He looked impossibly ancient, nothing like the man I remembered. “Mr. Navarre, do you truly believe you can find my son’s killer?”

“I believe I have no choice.”

White’s eyes betrayed nothing. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you. You’re good. Probably better than you realize. I’ve heard you can find anyone.”

“This is bullshit,” Madeleine spat.