Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(8)

At the bottom of the stairs, I remembered the gun box in my dresser drawer. Ralph knew I kept it there. He knew the combination. My dad’s .38 had been confiscated after the Vale shooting, but I still had a .22. I didn’t want it in Ralph’s hands, the way he was acting.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t turn back. One of my homicide department admirers was glaring at me through the glass panel of the front door, waiting to be let in.

“OPEN,” DETECTIVE KELSEY GRUNTED AT ME through the screen door. “Now.”

For Kelsey, this was downright civil. That made me nervous.

Kelsey was an ex-SWAT member with a face like a battering ram. He wore a cheap blue suit with an American flag on the lapel. His eyes were marksman eyes. Everything he examined was either a potential kill or useless. He’d also been Ana DeLeon’s partner until she got promoted over him and became his supervisor.

Alone, Kelsey wouldn’t have bothered me. But the head of homicide, Lieutenant Herberto “Etch” Hernandez, was standing behind him, flanked by a couple of uniforms.

I let them in.

Kelsey took a seat on the sofa. Lieutenant Hernandez drifted toward the fireplace and studied the labeled photos of Sam Barrera’s family. The uniforms stayed by the front door and glared at me.

“Look,” I said, “if this is about the Vale shooting . . .”

Kelsey picked up one of Mrs. Loomis’ glass knickknacks, turned it so it magnified the knife scars on his fingers. “You watch TV in the last hour, Navarre? Listen to the radio?”

Somewhere down in my gut, a lead-weighted fishing hook made a tiny splash.

I was used to cops being mad at me, but there was something different about the level of anger here—a barely restrained thirst for violence so strong I could feel it arcing between the four men.

“I’ve been busy,” I managed.

Lieutenant Hernandez turned toward me. His Armani suit was immaculate as always, his ash-gray hair combed and gelled. He exuded such power and style he could’ve passed for an investment banker, but tonight his face was gaunt, grief-stricken. “Mr. Navarre, we’re looking for your friend Ralph Arguello. We’re hoping you can tell us where he is.”

Four sets of cop eyes drilled into me.

“You work with his wife,” I said. “If Ana doesn’t know—”

“Navarre.” Kelsey’s voice tightened. “Just under an hour ago, at her home, Sergeant DeLeon was shot twice. Once in the leg. Once in the chest. She’s at Brooke Army Medical Center, dying.”

Everything came into sharper focus—the bristle on Kelsey’s chin, Hernandez’s cologne, the sounds of traffic outside.

“She’s comatose,” Kelsey said. “Chances are she won’t last the night.”

“Ralph . . . doesn’t know?”

“We’d love to inform him,” Hernandez said evenly. “He’s nowhere to be found.”

I stared at the glass apple rotating in Kelsey’s fingers.

“Mr. Navarre,” Hernandez said, “Sergeant DeLeon was about to press charges in a reopened murder investigation—a cold case from eighteen years ago. Does the name Franklin White mean anything to you?”

The room started spinning faster than the glass apple.

I got unsteadily to my feet.

“Mr. Navarre?” Hernandez said.

“Would you gentlemen excuse me? I have a number that might help . . . up in my bedroom.” I staggered toward the stairs. “I’ll get it, soon as I finish throwing up.”

“I’ll come with you,” Kelsey said.

“I’ll manage. Unless you want to watch me hug the toilet.”

Kelsey and Hernandez exchanged looks. Apparently I looked as bad as I felt.

“Two minutes, Mr. Navarre,” Hernandez told me.

“Lieutenant—” Kelsey protested.

Hernandez held up his hand. “And Mr. Navarre, this phone number better be very helpful.”

I OPENED THE BEDROOM DOOR AND found myself staring down the barrel of my own .22.

“Kelsey’s voice,” Ralph muttered, pulling me into the room. “Is Ana with him?”

I swallowed the dryness out of my throat. I told him what the cops had said.

Ralph backed into the bed and sat down hard.

Robert Johnson, never good with empathy, materialized in his lap and rubbed against the gun, demanding attention.

I figured we had about one minute before Detective Kelsey came looking for me.

Ralph’s fingers whitened on the pistol grip.

“Ralph, give me the gun,” I said.

He stared at the .22.

“Ralph,” I said sharply.

He gave me a look I knew well—Sam Barrera, 7:00 A.M. every morning—a blank slate into which I would have to pour all the names and geography and relationships he’d forgotten overnight.

“I have to see her.” His voice was ragged with grief.

“If you give yourself up—”

“I told you, vato, I can’t. They’ll take me in. They’ll never catch the right guy.”

“Four cops downstairs, Ralph. Give me the goddamn gun.”

We had about thirty seconds now, tops.

Ralph’s eyes were molten glass. “I didn’t shoot Ana.”

“I know that.”