Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(29)

Then Ana flew out the door, breathless. “Mom, can I borrow your car?”

Gently but firmly, Lucia brushed away Etch’s hand.

Ana took a step back. “Oh—”

“It’s all right, honey.” Lucia forced a smile. “Etch, did I tell you Ana is applying for special police?”

“That’s great.” Etch tried to sound enthusiastic, though his heart felt like crushed paper. “You thinking about civilian law enforcement some day?”

Ana studied him warily, then nodded. “Four years in the service, then college. Then apply to SAPD.”

She said it just like any twenty-one-year-old—as if life plans were carved in stone. It was hard for Etch to believe she was the same age as a monster like Frankie White.

“Uh . . . Mom?” Ana looked at the tequila bottle. “I thought you told me you’d stopped drinking.”

Lucia rolled her eyes. She was only drinking to commiserate with an old friend, she said. Everything was fine.

Car keys were provided.

Ana promised not to be out too late.

Etch tried not to resent the look Lucia’s daughter gave him—as if she thought he was making her mother drink. As if that was the only way Lucia would ever hold hands with him.

After Ana was gone, Lucia and he sat on the porch a while longer, but the moment for holding hands had passed.

A news break came on the radio, the Spanish DJ giving an update on Julia Garcia’s murder. The witness who’d provided the description of a possible suspect had now turned up missing herself. Police would not say if they had other leads.

Music came back on, a ballad about love in the desert.

“Who was it?” Etch asked.

Lucia frowned. “Who was who?”

“The guy who broke your heart. What’d you say: ‘stole a piece of your soul’?”

Lucia crossed her ankles. “That was a long time ago, Etch.”

She drank her tequila.

The song played through.

He was so close to Lucia he could feel her warmth, but she wasn’t with him anymore. Her thoughts were a million miles away.

For the first time, Etch felt the anger burning inside him. He resented Lucia’s past. He felt powerless, the way he’d felt watching the forensics team bring up the draped gurney with Julia Garcia’s body.

“I could do something about Frankie White,” Etch said.

Lucia set down her shot glass, leaned toward him. “Promise me you’ll never say that again. Not even a hint.”

“Lucia—”

“You become like them if you do that, Etch. It would eat you up. The only way to keep your soul from rotting when you deal with people like Frankie White is not to be like them. Don’t hate them. Just do your job.”

“Is that possible?”

Her eyes were intense, almost desperate. “It has to be.”

They sat on the porch swing in their funeral clothes, listening to love music from the Mexican desert while the phone rang cheerfully inside—Ana’s friends trying to reach her, optimistic young women all dying to chat about their wide-open futures.

ETCH WAS ON COMMERCE, THREE BLOCKS from the office, when he pulled over to take a call.

“Bad news,” Kelsey said. “Ballistics can’t match the bullets from Ana’s leg with the gun we found at Navarre’s house. Slugs are too badly mangled.”

“Caliber?” Etch asked.

“Yeah. Right caliber: .357. But the blood on the shirt isn’t Ana’s. Could be Arguello’s. They’re still testing . . .”

His voice trailed off, wiry and nervous.

“What else?” Etch asked.

“A body turned up in a South Side dumpster this morning. One of Zapata’s cutters, shot point-blank in the gut. Our guys have been asking around. Seems there was a meeting that went bad at Jarrasco’s last night. This guy and a friend met a heavyset Latino with a ponytail, about the same time that Ana was shot. The description kinda matches Ralph Arguello.”

“You’re saying Arguello has an alibi.”

“A bad goddamn alibi. He was busy shooting a guy?”

“But that would mean he didn’t shoot Ana.”

“It’s weak, sir. It’s still gotta be him.”

Etch heard the indecision in his voice.

Kelsey was the equivalent of an Abrams tank. As long as he had a clear target in the distance and wide straight road, he would roll over everything in his path. But as soon as he started doubting his aim or hit muddy terrain, he ground to a halt. He needed a good push to keep going.

“Kelsey,” Etch said, “if you think you may have been too focused on Arguello, for whatever reason, if you think you’ve made a mistake, it’s not too late . . .”

He could almost feel the steam on the other end of the line. Etch had dared to use the M-word.

“I didn’t make a mistake, sir,” Kelsey said tightly.

“All right.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

Kelsey hung up, hard.

Etch sat back and closed his eyes. He tried to convince himself everything could still work out.

With luck, Kelsey would now hound Arguello till Doomsday, and he would think it was his own idea. He would think Etch had tried to convince him not to.

Etch didn’t hate many people, but Ralph Arguello deserved to go down. He’d gotten away with murder before. He was no better than the Whites. Worse. He’d married Ana, jeopardized the career Etch had helped her build.