Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(75)

As for Guy White, his only punishment was living his final months under his daughter’s care. Madeleine got him a private nurse, allowed no visitors without her permission. The fire damage Ralph and I caused to the White house was not that extensive, but Madeleine announced that the mock-presidential mansion which had been the symbol of her family’s power for a generation would be razed by New Year’s. She would rebuild to better suit her tastes.

A new police lieutenant was shuffled into Etch Hernandez’s homicide position, but Detective Kelsey became the true power in the department. He moved into Ana’s office. Word was he’d make sergeant by the end of the month. Given that the department had few options for positive publicity, they were using Kelsey as a hero—proof that the SAPD would not tolerate wrongdoing within its ranks, even if it meant busting a superior officer.

The real support of the rank and file went to Ana DeLeon. A cruiser was almost always parked in front of her house—some colleague, making sure she and the baby were okay. Gift baskets, home-cooked dinners, offers for baby-sitting poured in. The police fraternal organization set up a college scholarship fund for Lucia Jr.

Once, and only once, Johnny Zapata sent his lackey Ignacio around to talk to Ana, to see if she would sell off Ralph’s pawnshops. Within forty-eight hours, the SAPD had found reasons to shut down all of Zapata’s front businesses. Ignacio was tossed in jail on several outstanding warrants. Madeleine White personally visited Zapata’s mother at Mission San José to let her know that her son was bothering a defenseless widow who happened to be a close friend of the White family.

Johnny Shoes got the message. Ana never heard from him again.

As for Ralph’s legacy, nobody, even the cops, had a negative word to say about him. He’d given his life to stop the man who shot his wife. He was a hero. Who had ever doubted that Ana’s marriage to him had been the right choice?

I kept waiting for the shock to wear off. I kept busy, took new clients, spent a lot of time with Maia. I knew the pain was somewhere inside, waiting to rip me apart, but my heart felt like it had been given a shot of morphine.

I drove past Ralph’s old childhood home, now occupied by another enormous family. I brought marigolds to San Fernando Cemetery, where Ralph’s simple gray tombstone stood next to his mother’s, near a spot where we’d once had lunch during Día de los Muertos. I visited Sunken Gardens, the Blanco Café, the stadium at Alamo Heights High School—all the places that had defined our friendship. I kept remembering Ralph’s irreverent grin, his wisecracks, the way he treated the world as a dangerous toy.

And every day I talked to Ana DeLeon, until eventually I got up my nerve to ask her advice about a problem.

CHRISTMAS EVENING, I PUT TISH HINOJOSA’S “Arbolito” on the stereo.

The Southtown house smelled like homemade tamales—a gift from some of our neighbors. I hadn’t had the heart to tell them I could no longer tolerate the smell of steamed venison and masa without thinking of Guy White.

Mrs. Loomis, miracle worker that she was, had decorated the house, bought a ten-foot Scotch pine for the living room, and cooked us all turkey dinner.

Sam still had a bandaged ear, but otherwise he seemed in a good mood. He and I had decorated the tree. We’d made ojos de dios out of string and Popsicle sticks to keep away evil spirits. I got a bunch of small frames and helped Sam make ornaments with pictures of his relatives. We made one for Ralph, which Sam seemed happy to add to his collection.

Santa Claus brought Robert Johnson a new scratching post, which he sniffed disdainfully. Then he jumped under the wrapping paper and got crazy eyes.

Sam got a bigger-caliber water gun. Mrs. Loomis got a raise and a new set of kitchen knives, since she couldn’t stand to keep the cleaver she’d used on Titus Roe. She protested that I couldn’t afford either luxury.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, and tried to smile confidently.

I told Maia not to open her present yet.

She gave me a funny look, but set the poorly wrapped shoebox aside.

“After dinner,” I said, and gestured with my eyes toward the front porch.

WE LEFT MRS. LOOMIS AND SAM in the living room, drinking spiked eggnog and getting sentimental about Nat King Cole.

Maia, the party pooper, was nursing a mug of herbal tea.

She leaned against the porch rail. “Thirty years in America, and I still don’t get Christmas.”

“You decorate a tree,” I said. “Spend a month shopping for crap nobody wants. Pretend there’s a fat guy in red velvet who flies around the world. What’s to get?”

“Thanks for clearing it up.”

Maia’s unopened present sat next to me on the rail. I tried to get up my nerve to say what I needed to say. “Hey, uh, Maia . . .”

She looked at me hesitantly.

“. . . I know you’re pregnant.”

Her eyes were amber, beautiful and immensely sad.

An electric current arced through my chest.

She folded her hands around her tea mug, looked out at South Alamo Street. In the window seat of the café across the street, an old couple was having dinner, dressed in their church best. They must’ve been eighty-something. They were holding hands.

“How’d you figure it out?” she asked.

“The night at the Whites’ party, you mentioned your mom. I kept thinking about that. And the way you’d been acting. Besides, I’m a detective.”