Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(6)

“Can’t beat the master.” Sam plucked another quarter from her change dish.

Mrs. Loomis sighed and reshuffled the cards.

She was by far the best assisted-living nurse we’d had. She got room and board, so she worked cheap. Being the widow of a cop, she was unfazed by the grittier aspects of my work. Sam and I provided her with company and a purpose. In return, she scolded Sam into taking his meds and kept him from interrogating the mailman at water-gun-point.

Out on South Alamo, Friday night traffic built to a dangerous hum. Somewhere, a glass bottle shattered against asphalt.

I needed to get up, change out of my funeral suit. But whenever I stopped moving, numbness set in. I started thinking about the .38 caliber hole I’d put in Dr. Vale’s chest.

What bothered me most wasn’t my remorse. It was that my remorse seemed . . . intellectual. Detached.

I was stunned at how easy it had been to kill a man. I was horrified by the elation I’d felt afterward, when I realized the doctor’s shot had missed me.

I was alive. He was dead. Damn right.

Perhaps Maia Lee had seen the wildness in my eyes when she’d met me at the police station. Maybe that’s what was bothering her.

My finger curled, remembering the weight of the .38 trigger.

Years ago, I’d asked a homicidal friend if stepping over the moral line got easier each time you killed a man.

He’d laughed. Only moral line is your own skin, vato.

That friend now had a wife and kid.

He’d stopped hanging around me because I was a bad influence.

In the kitchen, by the back door, Robert Johnson licked a tuna can. A moth with smoking wings fluttered around the lightbulb.

“Tres?” Mrs. Loomis asked. “Would you like to play?”

When I tried to speak, I realized I’d been clenching my jaw.

“Thanks,” I said. “But I should—”

Bang.

The back door rattled.

Robert Johnson evaporated from the doormat, abandoning his tuna can.

“Not again,” Mrs. Loomis muttered.

We were used to unwelcome visitors on the weekends—stray partiers looking for art, free food and beer, not necessarily in that order. Most came to the front door, but some wandered in from the backyard.

“I’ll deal with ’em,” Sam said, going for his water gun.

Then a familiar face appeared at the kitchen window—the friend I’d just been thinking about.

“Keep playing,” I told Sam. “I’ll take care of it.”

I walked into the kitchen, closing the living room door behind me. I went to the back door and let in Ralph Arguello.

“Vato . . .” His voice faltered.

He had blood on his hands. There were speckles of it on his forearms, a large red explosion drying on the belly of his white guayabera.

I don’t remember exactly what I said. Something intelligent like “Oh, shit.”

Ralph pushed past me, collapsed in a chair. He dropped a gun on the breakfast table. His regular .357. At least, it used to be his regular .357 until he got married and swore never to use it again.

Mrs. Loomis called, “Tres? Are you all right?”

Ralph locked eyes with me. His expression was a few volts shy of a stripped power line.

“I’m fine,” I called. “Just an old friend.”

“Zapata set me up,” Ralph croaked. “Two of them. I got one in the gut. The other—”

“Slow down,” I said. “Any of that blood yours?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

I drew the shades. I ripped a roll of paper towels off the dispenser and soaked them in hot water.

“Shit, Ralph. Johnny Shoes? What were you thinking?”

“Had to talk to him . . . Supposed to be a goddamn talk.”

“We’ll call Ana.”

“No!” He snatched a steaming wad of paper towels from me and pressed his face into them. “It was self-defense, vato. But Ana can’t . . . she can’t see me like this. You gotta let me rest here—just for a little while.”

Several reasons to say hell, no occurred to me.

If Ralph had acted in self-defense, he needed to come clean with the police immediately. He would already be in deep crap for leaving the scene. Besides, I was in enough trouble with the SAPD.

Still, something in his voice made me hesitate.

The kitchen door creaked open. Sam stuck his head in.

He didn’t look surprised to see a blood-splattered man sitting at our kitchen table.

“Who shot this agent?” he asked.

Ralph and I exchanged looks.

“It was an ambush,” I told Sam. “Our CI gave us bad information.”

“I hate when that happens,” Sam said. “You need an ambulance, son?”

“I’m okay,” said Ralph, a little shaky, but catching on fast. “Thanks, Mr. Barrera.”

“Special Agent Barrera,” Sam corrected.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Sam,” I said, “we don’t want to upset Mrs. Loomis, seeing an agent in this condition. You think you could convince her to take you to the store for some Metamucil or something?”

Sam nodded grimly. “I’m on the case.”

I WRAPPED RALPH’S BLOOD-SOAKED SHIRT and .357 in a plastic garbage bag and stuffed them behind the loose plywood wall in the laundry room. I told myself I could retrieve them as soon as Ralph calmed down enough to call the police.