Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(3)

If things went right, it wouldn’t matter if he was seen. Her husband, Ralph Arguello, was a reliably volatile son-of-a-bitch. Ralph would start the fight. If things went wrong . . . no. He wouldn’t let things go wrong.

He pulled into the driveway. He could see Ana through the living room window.

He walked toward the porch, the cold air stinging his eyes. The butt of the unfamiliar gun chafed against his hipbone.

She met him at the door.

As always, the sight of her stirred an unpleasant mix of feelings—resentment, longing, grief. She was the closest thing he had to family. She was also his deepest war wound—a scar that wouldn’t heal.

Her short black hair was disheveled; there was a long smear of baby food on her sleeve. The top button of her blouse was undone. Her collarbone made a smooth shadow against her skin. A beautiful woman, but she had interrogator’s eyes—dark as magnets.

“Well?” she asked.

“I have an answer for you.” His voice sounded strangely dry, even to him. “May I come in?”

ONCE HE WAS INSIDE, SHE DID a good job of acting calm, but he knew her too well. Her shoulders were tense. Her fingertips tapped against her thumbs.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she called from the kitchen. “You want a soda?”

He stared at the photograph of Lucia on the living room table. He was always amazed how strongly Ana resembled her mother.

Next to the photo was Ana’s laptop—crime scene images frozen on the screen.

“Where’s Ralph?” he asked.

“Out. Was that a no on the soda?”

“Out?” He tried to keep his voice level. “You were supposed to keep him here. This is a conversation about him.”

“We got Sprite, Diet Coke—”

“Ana, goddamn it. You’re out of time.”

She popped a can of Sprite. “This conversation isn’t about Ralph. It’s about you.”

“Me?”

She leaned against the kitchen doorway. “I can’t let you skate.”

He could feel the situation unraveling. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Ralph was the enemy. Ana had to realize that. Ralph was supposed to be here, to be provoked into showing how violent he was, how capable of murder.

Carefully, he said, “You’re not serious.”

“You left a trail.” Ana’s voice was heavy with anger, as if he had let her down. “You were sloppy. How could you think I wouldn’t find you?”

Her expression stirred bad memories—memories he couldn’t tolerate.

“You have any idea what you’re saying?” he asked. “Me, for Christ’s sake?”

She nodded to the computer. “Read my notes.”

He glanced at the morgue photo on the screen. He touched the keyboard, brought up a minimized document—Ana’s draft report on the investigation.

It didn’t take long to see that she’d done her homework. Every mistake he’d made, then and now—neatly documented.

He felt claustrophobic, dizzy, like he was waking up inside a coffin.

The irony was horrible. Yet she’d done good detective work, maybe even enough to convict.

“Ralph Arguello is poison,” he managed. “You don’t know who your friends are anymore.”

“I’m telling you first because a confession would be easier. We can get you some kind of deal. Protection. Otherwise, once word gets out, you’re a dead man.”

His jaw tightened. She wasn’t going to change her mind. She would risk a confrontation, her career, everything, rather than see something happen to that goddamn criminal she’d married.

He put his hand at his waist, felt the butt of the .357 under his coat. “You’re right.”

“Give me a statement, then.”

“I’m a dead man.” He brought out the gun. “If word gets out.”

Her face paled. “You won’t shoot me. I’m going to call now. We’ll get you a lawyer.”

She walked to the hallway phone—tension still in her shoulders, but damn, she was keeping it together well.

The thing was: She might be right. He wasn’t sure he could hurt her. Her, of all people.

She picked up the receiver.

“Put it down,” he ordered.

“I’m calling dispatch.”

Eighteen years of fear, shame and anger boiled to the surface—eighteen years of living with that worthless kid’s blood on his conscience.

Ana would never understand what had happened that night. He had sworn to die rather than let the truth come out.

“Put the phone down,” he pleaded.

“No choice.” She started to dial.

The first shot surprised him almost as much as it did her. The bullet tore through her pants leg. She dropped her Sprite and stood there, stunned, as a line of blood trickled down her ankle. Sprite gurgled from the overturned can on the hardwood floor.

She stared at him, silently saying his name.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. And he meant it. Goddamn it, he had never wanted this.

Ana reached for her own weapon, but of course her shoulder holster was empty.

She did not believe in guns around the baby. This house was a sanctuary.

Which may have been why his second shot, leveled at her chest, rang out so alarmingly loud.