Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,14
was out of the room, Maia moved around DeLeon’s desk and read the note on her corkboard.
White——Timing is wrong.
Santos—ME——retired
2107 Dunbar
864-9719
Maia simply could have memorized the information—she was good at that—but some instinct made her peel the note off the board, along with the photo of Lucia DeLeon and Etch Hernandez.
This is crazy, she decided.
But she slipped the photo and the note into her coat pocket. She moved another picture to cover the blank space—the photo of Ralph and Ana and their baby at the zoo.
Another wave of nausea swept over her, leaving her shivering and weak-kneed against the sergeant’s desk.
Last night, she had come so close to telling Tres what was wrong with her. Now he was on the run, protecting a murderer.
Damn him.
She should’ve left Tres where she found him, tending bar in Berkeley. The most impetuous thing she’d ever done: slipping a business card across the bar to a guy she barely knew, just because he had beautiful green eyes and a smile that doubled her heart rate.
You might make a good investigator, she’d told him. Give me a call.
Fifteen years later, her judgment was still rotten. She’d quit her job in San Francisco, moved to Austin to be closer to him, left everything behind. She would do anything to help him. But when it came to making responsible choices, he was hopeless.
Ralph Arguello embodied everything Maia resented about Tres’ hometown—dangerous, suffocating roots that had been pulling Tres away from Maia as long as they’d known each other. She’d almost lost him once before, when he’d first moved back to Texas. Now, when she needed his full attention more than ever . . .
If she’d told him the truth last night, what would he have done?
An explosion of voices from the cubicle area brought her back to the present.
“Hell—he’s got my—”
“Damn it!”
Sounds of scuffling, something heavy thrown against a cubicle wall. Then a bruised and bloody elf, now armed with the young detective’s Glock, burst into the office, Kelsey and two other detectives close behind.
Maia’s reflexes were slow. Before she knew what was happening, the elf was behind her, his arm clamped around her waist, the gun at her throat.
“Back off!” the elf screamed at the cops. “Back the hell off!”
The elf’s breath was sour and warm against her cheek. The muzzle of the Glock dug under her jaw. But at that moment, Maia was more scared of Kelsey. He had his pistol trained on the suspect, just an inch to the right of Maia’s ear. She saw no thought of negotiation in his eyes. No concern for her safety. He was hesitating only because he wanted a nice clean shot.
Maia grabbed the elf’s arm around her waist. She dug her thumb into the acupressure point at his wrist.
He screamed, his muscles loosening from the shock to his nervous system.
She drove her elbow into his ribs. He buckled forward and she rammed his head into the desk. He crumpled to the floor, the gun clattering onto the carpet.
The cops went slack-jawed.
“Gentlemen,” she said shakily. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”
They parted for her like a bead curtain.
Halfway through the homicide division, Kelsey caught up with her. “Counselor.”
His face was a beautiful shade of pomegranate. “What was—how did you . . .”
She took a shaky breath. “We have no further business, Detective. If I communicate with my client, I will advise him of our conversation.”
Kelsey looked at her as if reappraising her value. He rubbed the old scars on his fingers. “I didn’t tell you the deal, Miss Lee. Forty-eight hours.”
“Until?”
“Until the DNA test results from the Franklin White case are made public. Until we release the fact that Ana got shot because she was about to name her husband as prime suspect.”
“You wouldn’t.”
His expression stayed deadly serious. “This time Monday morning, Counselor. Navarre has that long to bring me Ralph Arguello. After that, believe me, I won’t have to worry about bringing Arguello to justice, or anybody who’s helping him. Guy White will take care of our problem for us.”
RALPH AND I SPENT A COLD SLEEPLESS NIGHT WITH SOME transients under a bridge on West Main.
The homeless guys decorated a Christmas tree with beer cans. They roasted pecans over a trash can fire, tried to remember the words to “We Three Kings” and kept asking Ralph if he had the DTs because of the way he was shaking.
I tried talking to him about Ana and the Frankie White case. I told him Ana would be okay. We