Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(51)

“Go on, vato.” He looked at the nine-millimeter pistol in his hand as if it were a new part of him, a prosthetic limb he’d have to learn to live with. “You don’t want to see what I’m cut out for.”

“You heard him, Navarre.” Alex smiled at me. He brushed his tuxedo jacket so I could see the other gun tucked in his cummerbund. No shortage of persuasion tools in the White household. “You need to enjoy the party.”

I left my best friend alone with the hit man, Ralph’s voice echoing richly against the tiles as he told Titus Roe he had five seconds to begin talking.

MAIA PUSHED PAST MR. WHITE BEFORE he could speak.

She stormed out the double glass doors, down the veranda steps into a throng of guests. Some of the tuxedoed men I recognized as business magnates, some politicians, some criminals. Mariachis strolled across the back lawn playing “Feliz Navidad.” Luminarias glowed along the walkways. The pavilion tent was lit up white. The woods glittered with Christmas lights.

“Fine woman you have,” White remarked.

I said nothing.

Alex hovered behind his boss. He kept a respectful distance, but near enough to hear every word.

White accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter. He held it up, studying the bubbles as if trying to remember the taste, but he didn’t drink. “What did your lady friend expect, Mr. Navarre, bringing Titus Roe to me? Did she believe I would turn him in to the police?”

“My fault,” I said. “I have trouble sometimes, thinking like you.”

“You lost someone close to you once, Navarre.” White’s eyes were as glacial blue as his daughter’s. “As I recall, you took revenge.”

He was right. White knew many things about my past that I’d prefer he didn’t.

“That wasn’t cold-blooded murder,” I said. “And I didn’t get someone else to pull the trigger.”

White smiled. “I understand Ralph Arguello. If you believe I gave him the gun because I did not want to do the killing myself, then I think I understand him better than you.”

“You’re a bitter old man.”

He gazed across the lawn. Madeleine was down there in a red evening gown, a crowd of young men trying to gain her attention. She was ignoring them, staring up at me with a baleful look.

“I understand people, Mr. Navarre,” White told me. “We only have two choices ever. To act, or fail to act. We feel better when we act. I have confidence Ralph Arguello is a man who will feel very good tonight.”

“And if Titus Roe isn’t the man who killed your son?”

“Oh, he isn’t,” White said. “One look at him, and I was certain of that. But if there’s anything to be learned from him, your friend will find it. After that, let him get some satisfaction from vengeance. Titus Roe is worth nothing.”

“The women Frankie murdered,” I said. “Were they worth nothing, too?”

No change in White’s eyes. No remorse. My comment wasn’t even worthy of anger.

“My son didn’t mean to kill anyone. He had trouble controlling his passions. I was much like him when I was young.”

“A monster, you mean?”

“Think what you like, Navarre. It doesn’t change the fact that some people are expendable. It’s always been so. My son’s life was worth more than any of the women he took.”

Took. In the back of my mind, behind the cloud of anger, I found it an interesting choice of verbs.

“Frankie wasn’t like you,” I said. “He was broken inside. You knew exactly what he was doing to those women, and why.”

“One thing about a terminal disease, Mr. Navarre. It makes you quite conscious of wasting time. If you’ll excuse me—”

“What about your daughter?” I asked.

Down below, Madeleine was hard to miss in her swirl of red velvet, her blond hair and her angry expression. At the moment, she appeared ready to punch a young man who was trying to tell her a joke.

“Is she worth as much as your dead son?” I asked.

White set his champagne on the marble railing. His fingers trembled with rage. “I’ve done more to protect her than you can possibly know.”

“Protect her from whom? Her own family?”

“Fortunately for you, Mr. Navarre, tonight is about keeping up appearances. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have guests to greet. But be assured. When I find the one responsible for my son’s death, I will not be handing over the gun to someone else.”

He gestured at Alex to follow, then made his way carefully down the steps, where a city councilman was waiting to greet him.

Before Alex could leave, I took his arm.

“Where’s the Secret Service?” I asked. “They weren’t outside when we pulled up.”

He smiled. “I made a few calls. I explained about Mr. White’s party. Some of Mr. White’s friends applied pressure. It was agreed surveillance on the night of Mr. White’s party would be pointless. They could spare us for twenty-four hours so as not to embarrass a man of Mr. White’s stature while he entertains his guests.”

“You think of everything.”

“I try.”

I watched Mr. White hobble down the stairs, leaning on his silver cane. “This party was your idea, too, huh?”