Mission Road Page 0,27

large white tent pavilion next to the swimming pool, setting up buffet tables and covering them in plastic to protect against the weather. At the far edge of the property, where the ground sloped down to a stand of live oaks along the banks of Olmos Creek, electricians were stringing the entire forest with Christmas lights.

"Intimate party tonight," Ralph guessed.

"For a thousand friends," I agreed.

The cousin parked the van. Seconds later, he opened our doors.

"Clear," he reported unconvincingly.

Ralph and I climbed out, half baked in grease. Ralph's jacket steamed in the cold air.

"Two cans of pork." The cousin shoved canisters at me. "Ralph, you take the two venison. I'm gone. Don't tell me how your visit turns out."

"Thanks, ese," Ralph said.

"Relatives," the cousin grumbled.

By the time we'd lugged our tamales to the service entrance, the cousin's van had disappeared around the drive.

Inside, Guy White's kitchen was a cavern of white marble and chrome, bigger than any apartment I'd ever lived in. The counters overflowed with gourmet food, catering trays, grocery bags, vases of flowers. I was too busy getting the crap burned out of my hands to notice much else about my surroundings until I found a free space to park my tamales.

"Damn." Ralph rubbed his red hands. "Now what?"

A female voice behind us said, "Now, you explain."

We turned.

Standing in an interior doorway, the angry young blonde was pointing a nine-millimeter pistol at my head.

SHE ESCORTED US INTO THE MAIN foyer, to the base of the presidential staircase, where her leather-jacketed friend was waiting.

The guy wore khakis and a button-down with the brown leather jacket. With stiff blond hair, athletic build, he might've been straight off any college football team, but I had the creepiest feeling I'd met him before. Then it struck me: He looked like Frankie White. If Frankie had been resurrected a little slimmer, a little more handsome, still alive and in his twenties.

He even had the same cruel grin.

He did a thorough job frisking us. If I'd been wearing a wire, he would've found it. If I'd had a nail file concealed in any crevice of my body, he would've found it.

He took my .22 and cell phone, Ralph's wallet. He turned out the pockets of our Goodwill jackets.

He raised an eyebrow when he read Ralph's ID. "Ralph Arguello. I heard about you."

"All true," Ralph said.

The guy snorted. "I heard you'd gone soft and Johnny Zapata was taking over your business."

He shoved Ralph against the wall and frisked him a second time.

"No wallet on the other one," he told the blonde, digging his gun into my ribs. "Think he's a cop?"

The woman appraised me coldly.

She had a tan much too good for the middle of winter, mussed-up shoulder-length hair the color of wet sand, a spray of freckles over her nose, black cargo pants and a black turtleneck sweater. She might've been any college kid just back from a week in Cozumel, except for her eyes.

She was too young to have eyes like that - startlingly blue and hard as glacier core.

"You're not a cop if you're with Arguello," she decided. "Who are you?"

"Tres Navarre."

Her eyes narrowed.

An uncomfortable sense of recognition prickled behind my ears. "Do I know you?"

She studied me about the length of time it would take to empty a clip into my chest. Then she glanced at her large friend. "Alex, put them in the wine cellar. I've got to think about this."

Alex scowled. "I don't take orders from you, Mad - "

"Just do it for once!"

"If Mr. White says to, sure."

She glared at him.

I hated to interrupt their lovefest, but I said, "Alex is right. We need to talk to Mr. White."

"No, you don't," the woman snapped. "Mr. White isn't taking visitors."

"He will for this," Ralph said. "It's about Frankie."

Alex and the woman both froze. Eighteen years since the murder, the name Franklin White was still good for a hell of a shock wave.

The young woman was the first to react. She walked over to Ralph and punched him in the gut.

It was a professional punch - her whole body weight behind it, straight from the waist. Ralph doubled over with a grunt.

"You do not mention that name." Her voice was steel. "Nobody is going to do that to the old man again."

"Do what again?" I asked.

She whirled toward me, but Ralph said, "Listen, chica."

He was clutching his stomach, trying to ignore Alex's gun at his head. "My wife is a homicide cop. She was about to nail Frankie's killer when she