Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,5

to living room. Mrs. Loomis’ crystal knickknacks multiplied like Jesus’ loaves. My carefully placed stack of Detective Industry Today got shoved aside for Sam’s medication tray. Framed photos of the Barrera family proliferated on the walls, with sticky note names and arrows next to all the faces so Sam could remember who was who. A crochet basket lived on my desk, right next to the skip-trace files.

All I needed now were lace doilies on the sofa and I’d be trapped in my grandmother’s house forever.

Sam and Mrs. Loomis had taken over the coffee table for their card game.

Sam wore pleated slacks, a dress shirt and a blue tie. His FBI standard-issue shoulder holster was fitted with a black plastic water gun.

The gun was a compromise.

I’d learned the hard way that when Sam got up in the morning, he wouldn’t rest until he found a firearm. I could take them away, lock them up, whatever. He would tear the house apart looking. If he didn’t find one, he would wander around irritated all day. He’d try to sneak out and drive to the gun shop.

Finally Mrs. Loomis suggested the water gun, which was a dead ringer for Sam’s old service pistol except for the bright orange plastic muzzle.

Sam was happy. Mrs. Loomis was happy. Sam could now shoot my cat as much as he wanted and Robert Johnson got nothing worse than a wet butt. Domestic harmony reigned.

“Who’s winning?” I asked.

“Special Agent Barrera,” Mrs. Loomis grumbled. “Five dollars and counting.”

“Go easy on her, Sam,” I said.

Sam looked at me innocently. He stuffed a roll of quarters into his pants pocket. “Hell, Fred. I never play for cash.”

My name isn’t Fred, but that never bothered Sam much.

In the last six months, he’d put on weight. He looked more robust and relaxed than he’d ever looked during his prime. Living at the Southtown office obviously agreed with him.

Of course, it should. He’d grown up in this house.

Through an odd series of circumstances, I’d become Sam’s caretaker and tenant when his memory started going. He didn’t want to give up the family home. He couldn’t maintain it by himself. I needed a cheap place to live and work.

Sam being a legendary former FBI agent and my biggest rival in the local PI market, I figured I was doing myself a favor by helping him retire. Every so often, I trotted him out to meet clients for “high-level consultations.” Sam loved it. So did the clients, as long as I didn’t mention Sam’s mental condition.

“How was the funeral?” Mrs. Loomis asked.

“The sermon was short.” I sank into an armchair. “Good appetizers. Closed casket. Nobody assaulted me.”

She nodded approvingly.

Sam laid his cards on the table. “I win.”

“Agent Barrera,” Mrs. Loomis chided. “I haven’t even bid yet.”

“Can’t beat the master.” Sam plucked another quarter from her change dish.

Mrs. Loomis sighed and reshuffled the cards.

She was by far the best assisted-living nurse we’d had. She got room and board, so she worked cheap. Being the widow of a cop, she was unfazed by the grittier aspects of my work. Sam and I provided her with company and a purpose. In return, she scolded Sam into taking his meds and kept him from interrogating the mailman at water-gun-point.

Out on South Alamo, Friday night traffic built to a dangerous hum. Somewhere, a glass bottle shattered against asphalt.

I needed to get up, change out of my funeral suit. But whenever I stopped moving, numbness set in. I started thinking about the .38 caliber hole I’d put in Dr. Vale’s chest.

What bothered me most wasn’t my remorse. It was that my remorse seemed . . . intellectual. Detached.

I was stunned at how easy it had been to kill a man. I was horrified by the elation I’d felt afterward, when I realized the doctor’s shot had missed me.

I was alive. He was dead. Damn right.

Perhaps Maia Lee had seen the wildness in my eyes when she’d met me at the police station. Maybe that’s what was bothering her.

My finger curled, remembering the weight of the .38 trigger.

Years ago, I’d asked a homicidal friend if stepping over the moral line got easier each time you killed a man.

He’d laughed. Only moral line is your own skin, vato.

That friend now had a wife and kid.

He’d stopped hanging around me because I was a bad influence.

In the kitchen, by the back door, Robert Johnson licked a tuna can. A moth with smoking wings fluttered around the lightbulb.

“Tres?” Mrs. Loomis asked. “Would you like to play?”

When