Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(60)

“And she’ll tell who shot her.”

Madeleine nodded. “And maybe who shot Frankie.”

“Who else knows this?”

“Just the cops, I guess.”

That didn’t make me feel better, after all the things Maia had told me.

“The lady who was here earlier,” Madeleine said.

“Maia Lee.”

“You two . . . serious?”

I nodded.

Madeleine said, “Oh.”

She picked up her champagne, staggered toward the door.

“That’s who called,” she threw over her shoulder. “She wanted to talk to you. I said you were busy.”

“She must have loved that.”

“She sounded pretty desperate. Guess that’s why she trusted me with the message.”

“What message?”

“‘The news is coming early.’ ”

“That’s it?”

“I thought she meant the news about the police lady in the hospital getting better. But now . . . I’m not sure. She said you needed to meet her as soon as possible. I got the feeling she wanted you out of here—fast.”

I tried to look puzzled instead of scared for my life. I’m not sure I pulled it off. I glanced at the bedroom door behind Madeleine, and wondered, briefly, if she were drunk enough for me to overpower her and make a break for it. Probably she wasn’t.

“Why would your girlfriend want you out of here?” she asked.

“Jealousy,” I speculated. “Because I’m having too much fun.”

Madeleine studied me. “You’re weird.”

“You wouldn’t consider letting Ralph and me out?”

“Another two prisoners running across the lawn in the middle of my dad’s party? I don’t think he’d like that. I delivered the message. That’s my risk for the evening. G’night.”

“Thanks, Madeleine.”

“Hope it works out with you and Maia. Depending on this . . . news.”

She closed the door behind her.

I waited for five seconds, then checked the deadbolt. Blessed be the inebriated. She’d forgotten to relock the door. I was thinking about how to jam it open when I heard Virgil’s voice outside, talking to some other guy.

I stayed still, waited.

The guys were right outside the door. Virgil grumbled something about Madeleine. The other guy laughed.

Neither of them checked the lock.

I could bust out and surprise them, but two against one, me with only a baseball bat and fashionable silk pajamas—I didn’t like the odds. I could take down two men, maybe, but the house was still full of people. Armed people. I wouldn’t get far.

I went back to Frankie’s bed. Ralph was calling my name through the hole in the wall.

“You catch all that?” I asked.

“Most,” he said. “Ana—she’s—”

“Gonna make it, yeah. But the news coming out early—”

“The DNA.” He hesitated. “Vato, I was about to tell you before . . . something I gave Maia, from Titus Roe.”

He described the police printout with Maia’s personal information and my address.

Once the news sunk in, I was tempted to put a few more holes in the wall. “Goddamn it.”

“I’m telling you, vato. It’s Kelsey.”

I tried to wrap my mind around the idea. It still seemed wrong. But who else? Hernandez? I thought about the lieutenant in his Armani suit and his fatherly smile. It seemed even more unlikely.

Then again, I thought about the client I’d killed a couple of days ago, Allen Vale, the well-dressed physician with the friendly smile and the loaded shotgun.

What had Maia said? Tres Navarre, impeccable judge of character.

“We gotta get out of here,” I said.

“Claro. You got any ideas?”

I told him about my door. “You want to try it?”

A long pause. “Yeah, but wait a few hours. Let the party die down.”

His voice sounded heavy.

It made me realize how tired I was. The long day was catching up with me—too much adrenaline, too much worry. As dangerous as it was to wait, if I tried to pick a fight in my present condition, I’d be committing suicide.

“You’re right,” I said. “A few hours sleep.”

I lay back on Franklin White’s bed and stared at the ceiling.

I told my body to wake me up at 3:00 A.M. Then we would make our escape. With luck, Ana would be conscious tomorrow. She’d get us all off the hook.

I had a bad feeling in my stomach as I fell asleep. Maybe I knew, even then, how incredibly wrong things would go.

Chapter 15

ETCH WAS UP WHEN THE CHURCH BELLS STARTED RINGING.

After thirty years in the neighborhood, he could anticipate St. John’s sunrise service. Every Sunday, he rose before the bells and dressed in coat and tie, though he hadn’t been to mass since Lucia died.

It wasn’t that Etch had stopped believing in God. He just figured the two of them had nothing more to say to each other.

Still, the bells comforted him, the way watching family picnics comforted him when he was riding in a police car. He liked knowing some people could have a normal life.

He chose a brown wool Italian suit, teal shirt, mauve tie, leather loafers. The temperature outside had dropped below freezing. He could tell from the knock in the water pipes, the color of the sky out his window. A Blue Norther had rolled in—a snap of Arctic air that had no business in Texas.