The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(55)

Del scowled. "Maybe my dad screwed her. Maybe it got him killed. She's just a girl. Who cares? She got shipped out of town, just like ten or eleven before her."

"Like ten or eleven before her," I agreed. "Which makes it easy to believe the same happened to Sandra. I'm starting to wonder."

I opened Sandra's journal, read the last paragraph aloud, the one where Sandra got kissed.

Del's face stayed blank. "So?"

"I think that describes Sandra's lover. And I'm having trouble fitting your father into the role."

"Maybe she was screwing somebody else. It happens."

"Maybe. But I'm starting to put myself in your place, Del. That's a scary thing. I'm starting to wonder what it would be like if I hated my dad, and I kept playing the devoted son so I could eventually inherit the business that I loved, and then somebody like Zeta Sanchez moved in on my turf and threatened to cut into my inheritance. I'm starting to wonder exactly what I'd do."

Del's eyes fixed on the wall behind me.

"Maybe I'd stage something," I decided. "A scenario I was sure Sanchez would believe, something that would drive a permanent wedge between Sanchez and my dad. Then I'd make sure Sanchez found out about it. Hell, I'd tell Sanchez myself and offer to help smuggle him out of town when the poor guy got so understandably irate he pumped six hollow-tipped bullets into my father. 'Too bad, Zeta. No hard feelings. Here's your ticket to Mexico. Thanks for handing me the company on a plate.

"Get out," Del croaked.

"Tonight I'm going to compare notes with a friend of mine, Del. I'm hoping that between him and me, we'll have enough to give you to the police in microwave-safe packaging. My best to Rita, okay?"

"Get out," Del said again.

I got up and walked around him to the door. Del made no effort to stop me.

His eyes stayed fixed on the portrait of Jeremiah Brandon behind the desk, the hatred in Del's gaze as he looked at his father a clearer message than anything he'd said aloud.

I walked out through the reception area. Rita's cheap gardenia perfume was still lingering in the air.

You go into conversations with people like Del hoping to shake them up, not quite sure what pieces will fall out of their pockets. Sometimes you pick up little shards of guilt, or surprise, or complicity that can tell you everything. Having shaken up Del, though, the main thing I came away with was the feeling that I'd just bullied a kid. An ugly, obnoxious, fat kid, to be sure. One who would push you off his carousel if you tried to take his seat in the flying teacup. But a kid. In the yard, Del's workers were breaking down the Super-Whirl, forcing its huge lighted arms flat like the carcass of a particularly obstinate bug. I silently wished them luck, then walked out onto Camden Street.

TWENTY-SIX

At nine-thirty, I drove to Erainya's house to pick her up for our rendezvous at George's.

Jem came along, too, but this time inexplicably fell asleep in the backseat as soon as we hit the highway.

We drove toward the South Side on the upper deck of I-10, the VW top down, the wind skin-temperature, the lights of downtown receding behind us. Down below, dark little houses sped by, tiny fenced yards, miles and miles of laundry lines, tableaus of beer drinking on back porches, cars with headlights on and hoods up, shreds of heavy metal music.

I filled Erainya in on my day.

She stared straight ahead, her index finger stroking her lip. "Kelly came down today."

"How're things in Austin?"

"She says fine. She's dyed her hair kind of yellow this time. Looks good."

"Ah, the rites of spring."

"She worked the county courthouse most of the morning — got a little bored sitting around the office with both you and George gone."

"She find anything?"

"Turns out Aaron Brandon filed a civil suit against Del about three years ago for control of RideWorks. Aaron claimed Del had swindled him out of his share."

"And?"

"And it never went to court. Aaron dropped the suit a couple of months after he filed."

"Out-of-court settlement?"

Erainya shrugged. "I guess. The question is, what kind?"

I fixed my eyes on the road and thought about the red-and-gold cigar seal I'd found in Sandra Mara's bedroom closet. If George had something to tell us, something that would sew up the holes, I swore to God I'd buy him the world's largest Cuban cigar.

We exited on Roosevelt and turned south. The Tower of the Americas swung behind us like a compass needle. On either side of Roosevelt were closed-up car dealerships, their sale banners flapping  apathetically. The side streets were dark and deadly quiet.

I must've been driving on autopilot, because the next thing I remember is Erainya shoving me and saying, "Heads."

We'd turned onto the broken asphalt of Palo Blanco. Up ahead, George's well-kept little house was dark. Its porch light was off. Even the carport light George used to showcase his 1970 Barracuda was off.

Next to the curb, a white van idled. Dark shapes of men moved across the gravel lawn.

My insides froze.

We were at the end of the block, still too far away to make out anything more, when the dark shapes melted into the van and its brake lights flared. Doors slammed. The van accelerated away from us.