Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,50
last person you know who hasn’t settled down.”
I wanted to yell at him how wrong he was, but my anger balloon had burst. I felt empty inside.
Mary and Joseph kept moving through the park. Their donkey must’ve made a deposit somewhere along the path. I caught a scent on the night air that was definitely not fajitas.
“We brought Lucia Jr. here last year,” Ralph told me. “She was a newborn.”
The Blessed Couple moved toward the cathedral doors across the street.
Ralph studied his wallet photo, then slipped it back into his pocket. “I got a bad feeling, vato.”
“You’re going to see them again soon,” I managed.
“You’d watch out for Ana—”
“Stop it, Ralph. Besides, Ana doesn’t need watching. She’d kick my ass if I tried.”
“But you would, right?”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, already.”
I drank my beer, tried not to feel uneasy. Ralph was just scared for his family. He was entitled to sound a little despondent. We would get through this together. We’d been in scrapes this bad before. Almost.
The crowd shifted. I caught a glimpse of Madeleine giving Alex a deadly serious lecture. He was smirking at her. I wondered if his insolence was bravado, or if he actually had enough pull in the organization to stand up to Guy White’s own daughter. I wondered what his plans were once the old man passed away.
“We could leave right now,” Ralph said. “Forget the White family.”
“We could.”
“But the answer’s back at the White house . . . isn’t it?”
I felt as reluctant as Ralph sounded, but I had the same gut feeling.
I kept coming back to what Sam had said. Even if Guy White didn’t want to admit it, the old gangster knew the truth about his son’s death.
I wondered again about the intruder who’d broken into my house. I wanted to think it was the same person who’d shot Ana DeLeon, but I had a hard time believing it.
A guy who could set up a meeting with a homicide detective, calmly pull the trigger and walk away didn’t fit the image of the man who’d broken into my place. Ana’s shooter wouldn’t have been vanquished by a meat cleaver and a water gun.
I poured out my beer, crumpled the cup in aggravation.
A tattooed man had broken into my house looking for a woman. He assumed she would be there. A woman other than Mrs. Loomis. A woman he wanted to silence.
A cold, slimy feeling poured over me.
I dug my cell phone out of my pocket.
“I thought you ditched that thing,” Ralph said. “Don’t be risking calls.”
I hit speed dial #1.
Maia picked up, and she was even more direct: “You’re insane. Get off the line.”
“I’ll keep it under thirty seconds.”
“Tres, I’ve got my hands full.”
“You’re in danger. There’s a guy with tattoos—”
“On his arms,” she supplied. “Flowers, right?”
My stomach did a half-pipe. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m holding a gun to his head. He’s driving. We have a nice arrangement.”
“Maia—Jesus, what?”
“I’m taking a picture. Hang on.” A few seconds later: “Check your phone.”
The wonders of technology. Camera cell phones had quickly become a necessity for PIs, but I never thought my girlfriend would be sending me photos of the men she held at gunpoint.
The grainy digital shot showed a fiftyish Anglo with grizzled hair and a pitted face. He was sitting behind the wheel of Maia’s car, looking as if he’d just received an electric shock.
I put the phone back to my ear. “Maia, how—”
“No time to explain. We’re looking for a quiet place to talk.”
“Tell me where. I’ll come.”
“Too dangerous. I’m hanging up.”
“Wait.” I struggled to think of a plan.
Madeleine and Alex had finished their argument. They were trudging in our direction. The Las Posadas carolers had started their final song, welcoming Joseph and Mary to the church.
“Where are you?” Maia asked. “What’s that singing?”
“Some newlyweds and a donkey. They’re looking for a motel room. Look, don’t interrogate that guy alone. Please.”
“The problem is where. You have five seconds to suggest a safe meeting place.”
Madeleine was only a couple of steps away. No doubt she was going to grind my cell phone into rebar. She wasn’t going to be receptive to me giving her chauffeur any more directions, either.
I made Maia the best offer I could think of. As usual, it also happened to be the most insane: “You like mafia Christmas parties?”
DECEMBER 19, 1986
THE LAST THING THAT MADE JULIA GARCIA smile was her murderer’s joke.
They were riding along together, his new silver Mercedes as smooth and silent as a magic carpet. She