The Widower's Two-Step (Tres Navarre #2)(52)

"Even though it could get you in trouble. And your boss. Why?"

I didn't have an immediate answer. I threw another biscuit into the backseat, hoping Sassy's nose would follow it. No such luck.

I turned my coffee mug in little half circles against my thigh and watched the businesses on Broadway go by—the abandoned Whopper Burger, the Witte Museum, the Costume Shop.

"Maybe I don't appreciate how Barrera called Miranda's problem a sideline. Maybe I don't appreciate how certain people are getting run over and Barrera treats them like they're small fish in a big pond. Some corporate client is paying him five or six figures to get them some justice, that much I'm sure of. I keep thinking about Julie Kearnes and Alex Blanceagle and how many more people are going to get killed before Barrera considers it worth his client's financial while to do something."

Milo nodded. "I can't do five or six figures."

"Beer in a coffee mug counts for a lot."

Milo took a right onto Hildebrand. He used huge arm movements to turn the wheel, like he was steering a boat. He had to hunch over to see out the windows that were made for normalsized drivers. "He's wrong, you know."

"Who?"

"Barrera. He's wrong about you not being cut out for this kind of work."

I stared at him. "Finding occasional corpses? Spending most of my time tracking paperwork in county courthouses and getting doors slammed in my face? You think this work you got me into is fun, Milo? Past seven years, it's been like what people say about war—hours of boredom punctuated by seconds of terror. Take it as a daily routine, it starts to grate on you."

Milo smiled ruefully. He shook his head. "You're kidding yourself, man. What's that martial arts style you do—tai chi, right?" "So?"

"The slowest style there is, the one that would drive most people crazy with impatience. What'd you study at U.C.—the Middle Ages?" "So?"

"So it figures. You're medieval all f**kin' over, Tres. Kind of guy who'd work seventeen years on one illuminated manuscript, or spend twelve hours getting into a suit of armour for a threesecond joust—that's you, Navarre. Process wasn't hard, you wouldn't enjoy it."

"I think I've just been called stupid."

The corner of Milo's mouth crept up.

He drove us over McAllister Highway, past Trinity University, and into Monte Vista. We turned left on Main.

"Your father still live over here?" I asked.

Milo nodded. "Got nominated for Rey Feo at Fiesta last year. He was all excited."

I tried to remember what kind of businesses Milo's father owned. Auto supply stores, maybe.

I tapped the small icon of the Virgin de Guadalupe that Milo had glued on his dashboard. "Your folks finally got you back into the Church?"

"Huh. Not exactly. The Virgin’s for business."

"Pardon?"

Milo shook his head sadly. "I didn't tell you why Les hired me?"

"Because you did his legal work?"

"No. That was a nice fringe benefit, but no. Les wanted to get into the Tejano market. I finally got Les to drop the idea and give me Miranda Daniels, but for a while there I was driving all around town trying to sign wannabe Selenas."

I frowned. "What did you know about Tejano music?"

Milo pinched the skin of his forearm. End of explanation.

"Your prospective clients liked the Virgin?"

Milo shrugged, looking at the Lady of Guadalupe like she was a purchase he still wasn't completely satisfied with. "Some of them. Put them at ease, frame of reference.

It was bad enough I'd speak to them in English."

I nodded. I'd spoken with Milo in Spanish only enough to know that he wasn't as comfortable with it as I was. There were plenty of Latinos who would consider Milo's lack of fluency a personal insult. A cultural lobotomy. I could almost see Ralph Arguello grinning.

"Can't be the only reason Les hired you," I said.

Milo made a sour face. "No. Not the only reason. Les also needed someone because, he'd just forced his previous assistant to quit. They weren't seeing eye to eye on business decisions."

"Who was his previous assistant?"

"Allison SaintPierre."

For no reason I could see, Sassy barked once, growled a little, then went back to her biscuits. Maybe Milo had her trained.

"Speaking of the happy couple," Milo said.

We pulled in front of the SaintPierres' white stucco mansion.

There were no cars in the driveway, but Brent Daniels' brown and white pickup with the horse trailer was parked on the curb.

Milo scowled at the truck. "Why the hell did he do that?"

"What?"

"Brent dropped the equipment here. That was stupid."

"Maybe—"

Milo was already shaking his head. "Shouldn't be anyone here this time of day except maybe the cleaning staff. Come on."

"But—"

Milo was already out of the car. Sassy needed help getting to the ground, but after that she waddled behind him at a pretty good clip.

Milo had a key to the front door. Assuming nobody was home, he unlocked the dead bolt and let us in. That was a mistake.