Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(54)

On the lawn below, Tres was arguing with Guy White, trying to keep the old man and his henchmen from Ralph.

Maia knew Tres would stand in front of a tank if it meant saving Ralph or her.

“Hell of a way for me to repay him,” Ralph said, following her eyes. “Tres kept me going, the last twenty-four hours. I haven’t done shit but cause him trouble since high school, and he still risks his neck.”

“I don’t think Tres would see it that way.”

“Stupid bastard,” Ralph agreed. “Doesn’t matter what I do wrong, he still backs me up. Covered my ass a million times. He makes me nervous.”

Under different circumstances, Maia might’ve found that funny. Ralph Arguello, nervous of Tres.

“Did Roe tell you anything?” she asked.

“He wasn’t going to. Said to go ahead and kill him, knew he was dead either way. Two years, three years ago, I would have shot him.” Ralph leaned against the marble railing, rubbed his face with his hands. “Having a family, Maia . . . I don’t know. First day I held Lucia Jr., it was like part of me went into her. Like she tapped me out. I can’t kill people anymore. Even with Johnny Zapata, I hesitated. I kept seeing my baby. Does that make any sense?”

Maia reached over and squeezed his hand.

At the base of the steps, Guy White was not getting any happier. His men were closing ranks around Tres, like they were about to put him under house arrest.

“You need to go,” Ralph told her. “Tres and I will manage. You gotta get out before White decides you’re his guest, too.”

“I can’t leave you two.”

“Keep searching. Check on the baby for me.” Ralph looked over, and Maia was surprised by the sadness in his eyes. “I’d do anything for Tres. Used to figure he would be the one with the normal life—marriage, kids. I figured he’d have those things and I could kind of enjoy them through him.”

Ralph reached into his shirt pocket, unfolded a thin piece of printed paper, like an oversized receipt. He handed it to Maia.

One glance and she understood what it was, but she was mystified how Ralph got it.

“In Titus Roe’s pocket,” he said. “Gave it to me after I cut his ropes. He wouldn’t tell me who he got it from, but he said I’d figure it out. Said he owed me that much.”

Men were coming around the edges of the veranda now, working their way toward Ralph.

“Take it,” Ralph said. “Figure out who’s left that we can trust.”

Who’s left we can trust.

For the first time, when he used the word we, Maia realized that Ralph trusted her. He approved of her. And when he talked about Tres having a normal life, having a family, he was including Maia as a given.

She didn’t want to leave, but she knew Ralph was right. She had no choice.

She pecked him on the cheek, promised to see his child, and slipped into the mansion as Guy White’s men came to secure their disobliging guest.

THE BABY HAD THOROUGHLY SLIMED UP the handcuffs and was now checking out Maia’s knee, tiny fingers grabbing at the fabric. Her wispy hair was braided and tied with plastic clips. The front of her jumper was stitched with a seal balancing a ball on its nose.

Maia could see the DeLeon family resemblance in Lucia Jr. She looked like her namesake—dark eyebrows knit with determination, as if everything was a challenge, and by God she would beat it.

Part of me went into her.

“You like my dress, huh?” Maia asked.

The baby looked up. Her mouth was open, drooling from intense concentration. Maia traced her finger over the baby’s ear.

Ana had looked like this, in her baby pictures. Maia wondered if Lucia Sr. had sat on a couch with her, offering police paraphernalia to keep the serious little drooler quiet.

“I’m going to have one like you,” Maia told the baby. “I’m in serious trouble, huh?”

The baby watched her lips move, but offered no advice.

Lucia Jr.’s eyes reminded Maia of someone. Not Lucia or Ana or even Ralph. She tried to figure out who.

Maia thought about her picnic with Tres in Espada Park. They had watched a mother and her toddler son walking by the old waterway. The little boy stumbled along, chasing a duck with a piece of tortilla.

“Cute kid,” Maia had said.

Tres nodded, smiling at the boy’s attempt to feed the duck by throwing wads of corn tortilla at its retreating butt. The mother chased after, herding the boy away from the water whenever he strayed too close.

“Count your blessings,” Tres said. “That could be you.”

Maia wasn’t sure why he said that. Maybe because the woman was about Maia’s age, a little old for having children.

Tres and she never discussed marriage, much less having children. But last summer, during a particularly dangerous case, Tres had brought Maia a friend’s child for safekeeping. He had told his friend that she was perfect for the job. Maia had wondered, ever since then, if he’d been trying to tell her something.

Count your blessings. He sounded almost regretful.

Or maybe she was projecting.

“Hard to imagine,” she told him.

The mother and child moved on downriver. The moment passed.

But the next week, Maia forgot to get her birth control prescription refilled. She kept putting it off. She told herself it was just because she was busy.