Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(5)

She gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. “I have to catch up with work. I’ve been busy bailing out my no-good boyfriend.”

“Men,” I said.

She leaned in closer. “Some of them, anyway.”

We kissed.

I tried my best to convince her that one night together really wouldn’t hurt.

She pulled away. “Tres . . .”

“What is it?”

She dabbed her lipstick. “Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“I have to go—”

“Maia?”

“—if I want to get home before midnight.”

We sat there with the car idling. A group of drunk art gallery patrons parted around us.

“Multiple choice,” I offered. “Work or personal?”

Maia’s eyes betrayed a glint of desperation—like a cage door was closing on her. “I’ll call you, okay?”

It wasn’t okay. Even I was sensitive enough to see that. But I also knew better than to press her.

I kissed her one last time. We said an uneasy good night.

Maia’s BMW pulled away down South Alamo. I fought an urge to follow her—an instinct almost as strong as when I’d grabbed my father’s gun and tailed Dr. Vale.

“Hey,” a passerby called to me. “Gotta restroom in there?”

He was an art gallery cowboy—grizzled ponytail and black denim, too much New Mexican jewelry. Judging from his slurred words, he was about three beers shy of a keg.

“I got a restroom,” I admitted. “Last visitor who used it, I just got back from his funeral.”

The cowboy laughed.

I stared at him.

He muttered something about not needing to pee that bad and stumbled off down the street.

I glanced at my business sign, wondering how much longer it would be there if my license got revoked. The art patrons might have the last laugh. By the next First Friday, this place might be a gallery.

I headed up the sidewalk, feeling like I was still walking behind somebody’s coffin.

SAM BARRERA AND OUR HOUSEKEEPER, MRS. Loomis, were playing Hearts in the living room.

When I’d moved in last summer, I promised my accountant the whole first floor of the house would be used for business. The residential space would be confined to upstairs. Unfortunately, Sam and Mrs. Loomis did a lot more residing here than I did business.

Slowly but surely, my waiting room had reverted to living room. Mrs. Loomis’ crystal knickknacks multiplied like Jesus’ loaves. My carefully placed stack of Detective Industry Today got shoved aside for Sam’s medication tray. Framed photos of the Barrera family proliferated on the walls, with sticky note names and arrows next to all the faces so Sam could remember who was who. A crochet basket lived on my desk, right next to the skip-trace files.

All I needed now were lace doilies on the sofa and I’d be trapped in my grandmother’s house forever.

Sam and Mrs. Loomis had taken over the coffee table for their card game.

Sam wore pleated slacks, a dress shirt and a blue tie. His FBI standard-issue shoulder holster was fitted with a black plastic water gun.

The gun was a compromise.

I’d learned the hard way that when Sam got up in the morning, he wouldn’t rest until he found a firearm. I could take them away, lock them up, whatever. He would tear the house apart looking. If he didn’t find one, he would wander around irritated all day. He’d try to sneak out and drive to the gun shop.

Finally Mrs. Loomis suggested the water gun, which was a dead ringer for Sam’s old service pistol except for the bright orange plastic muzzle.

Sam was happy. Mrs. Loomis was happy. Sam could now shoot my cat as much as he wanted and Robert Johnson got nothing worse than a wet butt. Domestic harmony reigned.

“Who’s winning?” I asked.

“Special Agent Barrera,” Mrs. Loomis grumbled. “Five dollars and counting.”

“Go easy on her, Sam,” I said.

Sam looked at me innocently. He stuffed a roll of quarters into his pants pocket. “Hell, Fred. I never play for cash.”

My name isn’t Fred, but that never bothered Sam much.

In the last six months, he’d put on weight. He looked more robust and relaxed than he’d ever looked during his prime. Living at the Southtown office obviously agreed with him.

Of course, it should. He’d grown up in this house.

Through an odd series of circumstances, I’d become Sam’s caretaker and tenant when his memory started going. He didn’t want to give up the family home. He couldn’t maintain it by himself. I needed a cheap place to live and work.

Sam being a legendary former FBI agent and my biggest rival in the local PI market, I figured I was doing myself a favor by helping him retire. Every so often, I trotted him out to meet clients for “high-level consultations.” Sam loved it. So did the clients, as long as I didn’t mention Sam’s mental condition.

“How was the funeral?” Mrs. Loomis asked.

“The sermon was short.” I sank into an armchair. “Good appetizers. Closed casket. Nobody assaulted me.”

She nodded approvingly.

Sam laid his cards on the table. “I win.”

“Agent Barrera,” Mrs. Loomis chided. “I haven’t even bid yet.”