The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(82)

"—so you couldn't be implicated. Hector was timing a murder."

"No," Ines insisted. The word was a little shrill. "He swore to me. He didn't shoot Aaron."

"Then who?"

"God damn you, Tres. Leave it alone."

"Paloma knows," I said. "She was the witness."

"Paloma wouldn't talk to me."

"You must've guessed she was lying about Zeta being at your house that night. But you haven't pressed her too hard on that point, have you?"

Ines flattened her hands on the Formica. "No. I haven't."

"You knew she was lying to protect you. You figured if somebody had to go down for Aaron's death, it might as well be your husband."

"Zeta isn't my husband anymore. Why can't you see that?"

The waitress came to our table, sensed the tension, took a step back. She asked skeptically if we were finished with our food. We said we were. She slowly loaded our plates onto her tray. She smelled of black-eyed peas.

"I'll bring y'all the check." Before leaving, she shot me a chastising look.

"Those are two cute boys over there."

The old couple at the next table had gotten up and were shuffling toward the door. The margarita-drinkers on the opposite side of the room kept doing their best to ensure prizewinning hangovers for the following morning.

Jem and Michael were making a pretty good dent in my quarter supply now. Their pockets bulged obscenely with prize capsules.

"I've told you the truth," Ines told me. "What now?"

"There's still the matter of my friend."

She frowned, not immediately understanding who I meant. That irritated me. "George Berton," I said. "He got himself shot poking around in your past after Zeta Sanchez was arrested. George talked to Hector, then visited your family farm. He must have found a photo of you there, used it to get an ID from the woman at the Poco Mas. He realized that the real story was you, but he didn't know all the details, and he was a little too soft-hearted to put a widow and her five-year-old boy in harm's way. So he set up another meeting with your brother. Probably George wanted to figure out a bargain whereby you could be spared discovery and Hector could give Del Brandon to the police on a skewer. It would've meant Hector getting jail time for the heroin, but this is the guy who'd got himself shot in the leg for you once. Hector would take the fall. Before that could happen, somebody interrupted his meeting with Berton — murdered Hector, almost killed George Berton."

"You're accusing me of that, too? Of murdering my own brother?"

"The police will wonder."

"I don't intend to talk with the police."

"Two people have died. Aaron. Hector."

"Don't you think I know that?"

"That's a lot of blood, Ines. A lot of blood even for a secret worth keeping."

She gazed across the room at her son, watching Michael's every move like she was trying desperately to memorize him. "Are you in love with somebody, Tres?"

The question struck me mute.

Ines raised her eyebrows — a gesture that reminded me powerfully of Ana DeLeon. "Are you?" she insisted.

"I — no." And then added inanely, "I don't think so."

That brought a dry smile. "Safe answer. Love's not the blazing epiphany some people imagine, is it? I didn't realize I was falling in love with Aaron until we'd been seeing each other for two months. When I started to fall out of love with him, the process was just as insidious. Now that he's gone..."

Streetlights on Broadway started to blink on as the sky darkened. The round window behind the 410 bar glowed, the glass liquor-bottle shelves that crossed it making it look like some sort of giant military insignia.

Ines fixed her eyes on the traffic outside. "Aaron so desperately needed to prove himself. He would've destroyed our family, endangered Michael, not even realized what he was doing until it was too late. That was his real inheritance from his father. Aaron and Jeremiah — they were like children. They both took what they wanted. No matter who got hurt. It took me a long time to understand that about Aaron. Hector — I'm not sure I ever understood my brother. To him, I was just some family banner he had to keep from getting trampled. All I'm really sure of now is Michael."

The kids used their last quarters. They began gathering up their loot.

"Don't destroy us, Tres." It was a whisper. Sandra's voice.

From across the room, Jem rolled open a Felix the Cat sticker for me to admire.

Our waitress came out of the kitchen with our check. She took one read of the situation — the boys with their loot, Ines and me still deep in conversation — then knelt down to intercept Jem and Michael before they could start back toward us. She gestured for the boys to climb onto the metal toadstool seats at the dining counter, questioned them about their stickers. Jem and Michael were happy to oblige.

I reached across the table, picked the crumple of packing tape from Ines' sleeve. "You don't have to talk to the police alone."

Her shoulders stiffened. "You said you would help."

"I will. But I can't be silent."

"The only reason I've been talking to you—" She swallowed back her anger.