Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(42)

The last few pages were a montage of clippings from Lucia’s police career. She’d saved both the good and the bad.

1968: A patronizing editorial about Lucia’s graduating class at the academy—the first to include women trained alongside the men. The headline: Cops in Pantyhose? A photo showed Lucia and five fellow female grads, all wearing skirted matron’s uniforms, looking like grim airline stewardesses.

Seven years later, a news article described Lucia’s award for the medal of bravery. She’d confronted a coked-up ex-bouncer who had clobbered two officers unconscious at the Pig Stand and was holding a third officer hostage at gunpoint. Lucia drew the bouncer’s attention, got him to aim his gun at her, then shot him. Her use of deadly force had been cleared by the review board. She became an instant celebrity.

1987: A brief mention of Hernandez and DeLeon as the officers who found Franklin White’s corpse.

Two years later, a strange article for the scrapbook—a retraction of an earlier news piece. The Express-News had erroneously reported that an off-duty officer, Lucia DeLeon, had been pulled over for drunk driving. Now, a police spokeswoman said that Officer DeLeon had simply been taking cold medication and hadn’t realized how impaired she was. DeLeon was a highly decorated patrol cop. Impeccable record. She’d voluntarily pulled over and accepted assistance from a fellow officer, Etch Hernandez, who happened to be passing by.

Maia read the article twice.

Happened to be passing by.

A month later, the police captain wrote Lucia a letter of commendation, asking her to head a new training program for the department. A scholarship for young women cadets was being created in Lucia’s name, and the captain wanted Lucia to teach a course at the academy. The new assignment was quite an honor.

And one that would keep her off the streets.

Maia wondered what Lucia had thought about that.

She flipped back to the picture of Ana as an Air Force cadet, hugging her mother with so much pride. Ana had followed her mother’s footsteps. She’d joined the police. She kept her mother’s photograph behind her desk in the homicide division. Yet she’d rented Lucia’s house to Mike Flume. She’d left her mother’s belongings in this garage, gathering dust for decades.

On Mike Flume’s yellow legal pad of notes, one final event was starred and underlined:

Lucia dies 1994—alcohol.

Maia wondered why Flume had felt the need to reconstruct Lucia’s life, and why he’d rented her house for so many years.

He’d written Lucia with an upward slant.

He’d spoken her name with regret, maybe a trace of wistfulness. He still remembered what she ordered for dinner. He knew to the minute when she had shown up each night.

Maia’s heart felt heavy. She didn’t want to delve into the old man’s longings, or know what he might’ve secretly felt for a lady cop whom he’d served dinner every night for years.

But it now made sense to her why Mike Flume might’ve lied to the police, if he thought he was protecting Lucia and her partner.

She was considering whether or not to take the photo albums when broken glass crunched behind her.

A cold prickle of danger went down her neck. Instinct took over. She dropped behind a pile of suitcases as the garage window exploded where her head had just been.

Maia drew her .357.

A shadow flickered across the ceiling—someone coming toward her.

She rose up, squeezed off a blast, and took out an impressive chunk of the wooden frame of the garage door.

Nobody there.

Her ears were ringing.

She heard feet on gravel—someone running away.

She cursed and charged out of the garage.

When she reached the driveway, a gray Volvo was peeling out in front of the house.

She could’ve let it go, but she was mad.

She dropped to one knee in the front lawn and opened fire—engine block, wheel, wheel, passenger’s side window. The .357 did its work. The Volvo spun sideways, plowed down a brick mailbox and shuddered to a halt in the front yard of the neighbor’s house. The windshield was shattered. Steam billowed from the hood.

The driver’s side window rolled down. A Colt pistol was thrown out. A tattooed arm appeared, feebly waving a bloody white rag.

Maia advanced, weapon trained on the driver. The neighbors were coming outside to see the excitement. One called, “Officer? You all right?”

It took Maia a moment to realize he meant her.

She looked at the man in the Volvo.

He was a middle-aged Anglo, an ex-con judging from his tattoos. His forehead was lacerated, his left hand a bloody bandaged mess. Maia had never seen a more miserable-looking assassin in her life.

“He didn’t tell me you carried a damn bazooka,” the man complained.

“Who didn’t tell you?”

He gave her hound dog eyes. “This is where it gets ugly, I guess.”

“You got that right, Tattoo,” she told him. “Get out of the car.”

Chapter 10

I DIDN’T CARE IF THE COPS STAKED OUT MY HOUSE, but I wished they’d be consistent about it.

Apparently they hadn’t been watching when some madman invaded and attacked Sam. But now that Sam was stuck inside, wounded and waiting for my help, Detective Kelsey and a uniformed officer had decided to camp out on South Alamo. They sat on the hood of a patrol unit, sipping coffee and having a nice little chat.