Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,2
when the body was found. She knew what would happen to her if she was ever discovered. She simply drove away, and her secret had stayed hidden for eighteen years.
Ana could slip into the killer’s skin so easily it frightened her. But then, she knew him well. His size, his strength, his motive, the way he would’ve lost control. Everything fit.
But how could she make an arrest?
Light flooded the living room windows.
A car pulled into the drive—familiar headlights, ten minutes early.
Ana wasn’t ready. She glanced at the hallway closet, where her gun was locked, but he was already coming up the front steps.
Don’t panic, she told herself. It won’t come to that.
The doorbell rang.
Ana had a sudden desire to bolt out the back, run to the neighbors.
But no. She was in control. She’d asked for this meeting. She had faced down desperate men before.
She walked to the front door to greet him.
• • •
HE HAD BEEN IDLING A FEW blocks away in a taquería parking lot, getting up his nerve, replaying the argument with Ana over and over.
She was so goddamn stubborn. He’d put the obvious answer right in front of her, given her overwhelming evidence, and still she refused to believe.
He tried to think of an alternative to what he was about to do.
There wasn’t one.
He loaded the .357 Magnum, put the car into drive.
He wasn’t worried about neighbors. Ana DeLeon’s house fronted Rosedale Park. On either side were vacant lease properties—not unusual for the West Side. The only neighbors were the ones in back, an elderly couple across the alley.
If things went right, it wouldn’t matter if he was seen. Her husband, Ralph Arguello, was a reliably volatile son-of-a-bitch. Ralph would start the fight. If things went wrong . . . no. He wouldn’t let things go wrong.
He pulled into the driveway. He could see Ana through the living room window.
He walked toward the porch, the cold air stinging his eyes. The butt of the unfamiliar gun chafed against his hipbone.
She met him at the door.
As always, the sight of her stirred an unpleasant mix of feelings—resentment, longing, grief. She was the closest thing he had to family. She was also his deepest war wound—a scar that wouldn’t heal.
Her short black hair was disheveled; there was a long smear of baby food on her sleeve. The top button of her blouse was undone. Her collarbone made a smooth shadow against her skin. A beautiful woman, but she had interrogator’s eyes—dark as magnets.
“Well?” she asked.
“I have an answer for you.” His voice sounded strangely dry, even to him. “May I come in?”
• • •
ONCE HE WAS INSIDE, SHE DID a good job of acting calm, but he knew her too well. Her shoulders were tense. Her fingertips tapped against her thumbs.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she called from the kitchen. “You want a soda?”
He stared at the photograph of Lucia on the living room table. He was always amazed how strongly Ana resembled her mother.
Next to the photo was Ana’s laptop—crime scene images frozen on the screen.
“Where’s Ralph?” he asked.
“Out. Was that a no on the soda?”
“Out?” He tried to keep his voice level. “You were supposed to keep him here. This is a conversation about him.”
“We got Sprite, Diet Coke—”
“Ana, goddamn it. You’re out of time.”
She popped a can of Sprite. “This conversation isn’t about Ralph. It’s about you.”
“Me?”
She leaned against the kitchen doorway. “I can’t let you skate.”
He could feel the situation unraveling. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Ralph was the enemy. Ana had to realize that. Ralph was supposed to be here, to be provoked into showing how violent he was, how capable of murder.
Carefully, he said, “You’re not serious.”
“You left a trail.” Ana’s voice was heavy with anger, as if he had let her down. “You were sloppy. How could you think I wouldn’t find you?”
Her expression stirred bad memories—memories he couldn’t tolerate.
“You have any idea what you’re saying?” he asked. “Me, for Christ’s sake?”
She nodded to the computer. “Read my notes.”
He glanced at the morgue photo on the screen. He touched the keyboard, brought up a minimized document—Ana’s draft report on the investigation.
It didn’t take long to see that she’d done her homework. Every mistake he’d made, then and now—neatly documented.
He felt claustrophobic, dizzy, like he was waking up inside a coffin.
The irony was horrible. Yet she’d done good detective work, maybe even enough to convict.
“Ralph Arguello is poison,” he managed. “You don’t know who your friends are anymore.”
“I’m telling you