Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,74
numerous times. Never once had she been challenged. She liked to think that was because of her great acting skill, but she feared it had more to do with hospital security. They weren’t any better than police stations.
Maternity wards were the worst. Maia had already put that on her list of things to worry about, six months from now . . .
The elevator opened on the third floor.
As Maia feared, no police officers were stationed outside Ana DeLeon’s room.
Sunday morning, off-duty cops could make big bucks directing traffic for the local churches. It wouldn’t have taken much to convince the uniforms to take off this shift.
Maia walked toward Ana’s room. Halfway, she froze. At the far end of the hall, by the nurse’s station, Etch Hernandez was standing with his back turned, talking to an orderly.
If he’d already done something, if Maia was too late . . .
Morning sickness snaked its way through her stomach. She fought down the nausea and slipped into the room.
Ana’s heart monitor showed a strong pulse. Her eyes were closed. She still looked wasted and pale, but the improvement over yesterday was striking.
Her face had some color to it. Her chest rose and fell with regular breathing.
Maia suddenly felt foolish.
Perhaps she’d been wrong about Hernandez. He’d been here before her. He hadn’t done anything. Would he be in the hallway, casually chatting with an orderly, if he was planning murder?
Maia went to the bedside and held Ana’s hand. Ana’s gold wedding band felt warm against her skin.
Maia prayed Tres had gotten her phone message. It had been a desperate, stupid thing to do—trusting White’s daughter, but Maia had been shaken. She’d felt a compulsive need to explain Tres—to protect him. And she’d sensed something in the young woman’s voice—a receptiveness. God, if she was wrong . . .
The DNA match would be announced anytime. It wouldn’t be long before someone in White’s household heard the news.
The pain in Maia’s gut was getting worse. She wanted to lie down, curl into a ball, but she couldn’t give in to it—especially not this morning.
Ana’s eyes moved under her lids, as if she were dreaming.
“You’ll be okay,” Maia told her shakily. “You’re a tough lady.”
She heard footsteps coming down the hallway.
Maia slipped behind the bathroom door and aimed her cell phone camera through the space between the hinges.
Etch Hernandez came into the room.
He was well dressed as usual—a chocolaty wool suit, teal shirt, mauve silk tie. He regarded the woman on the bed with his usual sad expression, as if he’d simply come as a dear friend. Then he reached in his jacket and took out a syringe and a small vial.
Maia snapped a picture.
Hernandez moved toward Ana’s bed. Maia pulled her gun and stepped out of the bathroom. “Lieutenant.”
Hernandez turned, his eyes as glassy as a sleepwalker’s. He was right next to Ana. The syringe was full.
“I got a nice picture of you about to poison your protégée,” Maia said. “Try it and I’m going to blow a hole in your fucking Italian suit.”
Hernandez regarded Ana. The needle was three inches from her forearm. “I should’ve killed you first, Miss Lee. That was a mistake.”
“I think we can agree that your priorities are fucked up,” Maia said. “Now step away from Ana.”
Hernandez focused on a spot in the air, as if he were listening to some other voice. “Miss Lee, you don’t understand. I’m not interested in saving my own skin.”
“No,” Maia said. “You’re interested in saving Lucia’s memory. And if you don’t cap the syringe, I’ll tell everyone the truth about Frankie’s murder.”
She wasn’t sure she truly understood until that moment, when his eyes turned cold and bright. “You’ve shared your thoughts with Navarre and Arguello?”
“You’re going to do that,” she said. “We’re going to go see them right now.”
“And why should I agree?”
“Because you want the truth to come out. Deep down, you won’t be satisfied with someone else taking the blame. Part of you wanted Ana to pick up that cold case. You wanted to hurt her. You wanted Ana to know, Etch.”
She’d never addressed him by his first name before, and it seemed to unnerve him.
He lowered the needle. He wiped it with his handkerchief, capped it, put it back in his jacket pocket. “You plan to walk out of here holding a police lieutenant at gunpoint?”
“Not at gunpoint,” Maia said. “I’m taking your sidearm and putting mine away. We leave together. If you try anything, I’ll break your neck with my bare