Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(43)

Fortunately we’d planned for this contingency.

I watched from the end of the block as Guy White’s henchman Alex drove a delivery van in front of my house. He slowed down next to Kelsey. Ralph rolled down the shotgun window, whistled, and the van took off.

The effect was absolutely brilliant. Kelsey managed to spill his coffee, tangle his gun in his holster and trip over his own shoelaces. By the time both cops were in their car and in pursuit, Ralph, Alex and the van were long gone.

“Pull around back,” Madeleine ordered our chauffeur. “And keep the engine running.”

“Alex does know how to evade police?” I ventured to ask.

Madeleine raised an eyebrow. “Alex’s first job was driving for a drug cartel in Houston. Ten minutes from now, your friend and he will have changed cars three times and the cops will pull over some little old lady in that delivery van. You watch.”

Not having much choice, I took her word for it.

We walked up the back steps of my house and entered Chez Bloodbath.

RED WAS SPRINKLED ALL OVER THE linoleum. It made an arc across one wall and speckled the countertops.

In the midst of the carnage, Sam and Mrs. Loomis and my cat, Robert Johnson, were having chamomile tea at the kitchen table.

I said, “Holy Jesus.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Sam informed me. “Lot of blood, is all.”

“Your ear.”

“What?” Sam cupped his hand around the mass of bandages on the right side of his face.

“The bastard shot off your ear.”

“Only the lobe,” Mrs. Loomis corrected wearily. “I put iodine on it.”

“What?” Sam yelled.

Mrs. Loomis told me the story while Madeleine inspected the scene. Robert Johnson lapped spilt tea and milk from Sam’s saucer. Sam must’ve been more shaken up than he let on. He didn’t bother shooing away the cat.

When Mrs. Loomis was done, Madeleine held up a newly rinsed meat cleaver from the sink. “You stabbed the intruder with this?”

Mrs. Loomis shrugged. “I wanted him to leave.”

“Impressive,” Madeleine said.

“I don’t pay you enough,” I said.

Mrs. Loomis tried to give me a reproachful look, but she was blushing too hard.

She described the intruder as a wild-eyed Anglo, grizzled hair, leathery skin, grungy flannel shirt and heavily tattooed arms. Unfortunately, that sounded like half the people I knew and several of my relatives.

“He said something odd,” Mrs. Loomis added. “He said: ‘Where is she?’”

“Where’s who?” I looked at Madeleine for her opinion.

She shrugged. “Maybe wrong address. Maybe he was a random burglar.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Or maybe he was Frankie’s killer.”

Sam perked up. “Frankie White?”

I wasn’t sure what surprised me more—that he’d heard me, or that he knew who we were talking about. “Sam, you remember Frankie White?”

“What?”

“Franklin White!” I yelled.

“Yeah. Kid who got clobbered to death, right? Good money. I was the fourth or fifth PI the dad hired. Crazy damn family.”

Madeleine’s eyes narrowed. She was still holding the meat cleaver. “Who is this old man?”

I wondered if I should risk asking Sam more questions.

I’d learned never to assume he remembers anything, but also never to underestimate him. At times, he could tell me every fact about a case from thirty years ago. Other times, his memory was a house of cards. Put too much weight on it, and the whole thing collapsed.

“Sam, do you remember what you found out?”

He scowled at me over the rim of his teacup. “About what?”

“About Frankie White.”

“He died. It was the father’s fault.”

Silence.

Robert Johnson pushed the empty saucer around with his tongue.

I said, “Um, Sam—”

“The father was bad news. Other PIs were afraid to tell him the truth. I think he knew, deep down. I tried to tell him, but hell, he didn’t want to listen. He’d already decided it was some business rival did the hit. Nobody likes to hear, ‘It’s all your fault. You screwed up your own kids.’ ”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Daughter and son.” Sam shook his head. “Both mental cases. Adolescent girl was institutionalized—manslaughter, I think.”

Madeleine stared at her leather pumps. She seemed to notice for the first time that she was standing in a puddle of blood.

“Madeleine,” I said. “Put the cleaver down, okay?”

She kicked over one of the kitchen chairs. The cat vaporized from the table.

“Madeleine,” I said again.

She threw the cleaver. It twirled past my head and impaled itself with a THWOCK in the corkboard by the oven.

The edge of the blade sank into the wall maybe two inches. The handle shuddered.

“I’ll be in the car,” she said gruffly.

The back door slammed behind her.

My heart started beating again.

“New girlfriend, Fred?” Sam asked cheerfully. “I liked the Chinese lady better.”