The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(60)

"You f**king better know I'm not."

"Because I could sympathize. It was hard getting Jem here today, too, Mrs. Brandon. You know where he and I were last night? You remember that man I asked you about — the one you didn't know, Hector Mara? He went over to my friend's house last night. Good friend of mine — George Berton. The two of them were talking, probably about your husband's murder, when somebody came in and shot them both."

Ines' face had turned chalky. "I don't..."

She took a step sideways toward a small live oak tree and steadied herself against the trunk.

"Mara's dead," I told her. "My friend's not quite — yet. Jem, his mom, and I walked in right after the shootings, stayed at the scene until almost two."

"What do you want me to say?" Ines asked me harshly. "That I'm sorry?"

"Somebody with a .357 put my friend into a coma. That person is still out there."

"I didn't ask your friend to get involved, Mr. Navarre. Or you, for that matter."

"That's right. You're right. Forget the shootings are connected to your husband's murder. I don't know why I thought you'd care."

"Don't you dare presume to know what I care about."

"Look, Ines—"

"Go away, goddamn you. Leave Michael and me alone."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, tried to remember I didn't have a reason to be arguing with this woman. "I need some help."

"I don't want any part of it."

"My guess is that your brother-in-law Del is behind the shootings somehow. He and a he**in dealer named Chich Gutierrez. You're telling me you wouldn't like a chance to nail Del Brandon?"

"I can't help."

Mrs. T. rang a handbell. Kids dropped off playground equipment and started forming lines in front of the classroom doors. Jem was in the middle, walking with his fingers pinched to the shirt of the boy in front of him. The teacher glanced uneasily in our direction one more time, then followed her charges inside.

"The kids get out at one-thirty," I told Ines. "What are you doing until then?" She was silent, her lips thin and angry.

"You have other plans?"

"The move—"

"Yeah," I said. "Michael's room. Come with me instead. Help me dredge my car out of the river."

She stared at me, then laughed uneasily. "What?"

"You heard me. How often do you get an offer like that?"

Her mouth quivered, formed a fragile smile. "I don't even like you."

"So come watch me be humiliated. It'll be a blast."

She looked down toward the street, her mouth hardening again. "Would we be even?"

"What?"

"You drove me home from Aaron's office Wednesday. If I drive you today, would we be even?"

She held out her hand. I shook it.

"Charm and diplomacy win again," I said.

"That," Ines Brandon said, "and the fact I never want to owe you anything, Mr. Navarre. Never."

Then she turned and started down the sidewalk toward her car, leaving me to follow or not.

TWENTY-NINE

"At least your VW knew when to quit," Ozzie Gerson said.

We were standing in the drainage channel on the banks of the river, watching the tow-truck guys connect their winch hooks to the carcass of my VW. Ines Brandon sat nearby on the hood of Ozzie's police unit.

The VW lay on its back, half submerged, bashed to hell on the passenger's side and smeared with toilet paper and river garbage. During the night some adventurous kids had come by and spray-painted PUTA!! in white across the VW's exposed underbelly. Whore. The final indignity to an old, unappreciated

dame.

Up on the rim of the ditch I could see the flattened section of guardrail the Bug had smashed through, the path of destruction it had made rolling down the muddy slope through the bushes. The chaparral I'd been thrown into was about thirty feet from the first point of impact on the slope. I was trying to figure out

how I'd ended up there in one piece.

"You got lucky." Ozzie's pale blue eyes were cold with anger and frustration. "Luckier than Berton, anyway."

"You offered to help," I reminded Ozzie. "I need to know where to find Chich Gutierrez."

The mechanics attached the first hook to the VW's fender and pulled the line tight. Metal groaned. I think maybe I did, too.

Gerson lifted his left arm stiffly, testing the muscles. The bandages under his uniform shirt crinkled. "You sure that's your job — taking revenge?"

"Anything I needed, you said."

"I don't want you getting killed on my watch, Tres. Your father'd haunt me forever."

The tow-truck guys started their winch motor. More groaning metal. The motor bellowed like a wounded sea lion but made no discernible progress getting the VW out of the muck.

"Tell me everything," Ozzie said.

I told him about the SWAT raid at Hector Mara's house; the George Berton cigar wrapper in Sandra's closet; the white van I'd chased down Riverside. I told him, too, about Ray Lozano's read of the crime scene at Palo Blanco.

"George found out something about the Brandon murder," I said. "Something that bothered him enough to try solving it quietly, on his own. He talked to Hector Mara at the Poco Mas on Wednesday. Then he had another meeting with Mara last night. He and Hector were coming to some kind of agreement. I don't know what it was, but George intended to have the case wrapped up with Mara's help by the time Erainya and I showed. The guys in the white van didn't let it happen."