Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(50)

Only she hadn’t believed it. She had refused to accept hard evidence.

And so Etch had gone to her house that night to push and provoke. To prove Ralph was a killer. He had learned that lesson from Lucia. Make them aim at you, then shoot them down. He hadn’t meant to find Ana alone. He certainly never dreamed she would corner him like that.

If he could take it back . . .

You’re lying to yourself, Lucia said. If you wanted to hurt Ralph Arguello, you could have done so years ago. Same with the Whites. If you wanted to hurt them, you’ve had chances. It’s not them you’re mad at. You meant to do exactly what you did. That’s why you took a .357, the same make as Arguello’s gun.

“Not true,” he said aloud. “I never meant to hurt her. She’s your daughter. She’s the only thing left of you.”

Exactly, Lucia said. Exactly.

He closed his eyes, tried to change Lucia’s voice. He wanted to remember the night they’d made love, the night he’d decided they might actually have a chance together. For a few weeks, before Frankie’s murder, it had seemed possible.

Everything I’ve done, I did to protect you, Etch said.

Even that is not true, Etch, Lucia said. Even that.

He opened his glove compartment. The small glass vial was still there, the one he’d brought with him on his first visit to Ana’s bedside.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he would know what to do.

He drove toward home, the ghost of his partner riding beside him, silent and disapproving.

Chapter 12

“WELL DONE,” MR. WHITE TOLD US.

Ralph, Maia and I stood in a semicircle around our prize.

The sauna room was tiled in milky white. Every drop of water or creak of the pipes echoed. Even White’s anemic voice resonated. The air was thick and warm. I was getting nostalgic for the tamale truck.

In the middle of the floor, the hit man knelt, his hands tied behind his back. His face had had a close encounter with a steering wheel. His left eye was swollen shut. I wasn’t inclined to feel sorry for a guy who’d tried to murder my girlfriend, but he was doing a pretty good job looking pathetic.

“Titus Roe,” Ralph said. “Washed-up assassin.”

“I know who he is.” Guy White leaned forward on his cane.

He looked like he’d been made up for the party by a skilled mortician. His wasted face glowed with an unnatural mix of rouge and cream. His silver hair was freshly trimmed. His collar was starched, his tuxedo perfectly pressed, the shoulders padded. No doubt this was supposed to give the impression that Guy White was still healthy and powerful. Instead, he reminded me of some frail, soft-bodied creature slipped into a shell much too large for him.

Alex Cole stood at his side. His tuxedo matched Mr. White’s down to the cuff links.

Madeleine was not present. As soon as we pulled into the gates, she’d been summoned for some “words with her father,” and we hadn’t seen her since.

“Roe was a suspect in Frankie’s case,” Ralph said. “The cop Drapiewski told us that. Now he’s tried to kill Maia.”

“And he refuses to speak,” White observed. “How surprising.”

Roe said nothing. He was doomed, and he knew it. His slumped posture told me he was conserving his energy for the last thing that would matter—withstanding pain.

“He’s a pawn,” Maia said.

A faint scowl played on White’s lips. “I respect your opinion, Miss Lee. But a pawn for whom? That’s what we need to know.”

White held out his palm. Alex placed a nine-millimeter pistol in it.

White checked the magazine of the gun. “Twelve shots. They can be measured out judiciously, I think.”

He offered the gun butt-first to Maia.

“No,” she told him. “I’m not going to be party to torture.”

“This man tried to kill you.”

“He’s an incompetent. Someone forced him to do it. He’s a diversion.”

White studied Maia, as if noticing small, unfortunate flaws in an otherwise valuable vase. “So . . .”

He turned to Ralph. “Titus Roe may be the man who shot your wife. At the very least, he is our best lead to find the one who did.”

“Yeah.” Ralph’s voice was ragged.

“Mr. Arguello—Ralph—I understand you want to separate yourself from your past life, now that you have a family.” White’s face took on a look of sympathy that seemed as unnatural as the makeup. “Trust me, my boy, you can’t. Neither of us can.”

He offered Ralph the gun.

All I could think: This was my fault. I had brought Titus Roe here.

I hadn’t looked any further than my gut reaction—to protect Maia by bringing her closer to me, to confront the man who’d dared to shoot at her. I hadn’t thought through the obvious: what would happen to the shooter once he was in Guy White’s grasp.

Water pipes shuddered. Somewhere above, someone was running a faucet, washing hands or scrubbing a wine stain from party clothes.

Ralph took the gun.

“Ralph, no,” I said. “Don’t.”

“I should return to my party,” White said. “Miss Lee, Mr. Navarre, accompany me.”

“Ralph,” I said, “wait—”