Mission Road Page 0,28

got shot. I'm going to find the bastard who shot her. Mr. White's gonna help, because the shooter's the same person who killed his son."

"Mr. White doesn't want to talk to you."

"That's not your decision to make," I said. "Is it?"

Her kick was even faster than her punch.

I thought I was ready for it. I was no stranger to martial arts.

She launched a side-strike and I caught her ankle. I pulled her off balance, but instead of landing on her butt like a good opponent she pivoted in midair, connected her other foot with my face and turned her fall into a roll.

At least, that's what Ralph told me later.

At the time, I was too busy staggering, admiring the floating yellow spots and tasting blood in my mouth.

The young woman got to her feet. She picked her gun up off the carpet.

"Forget the wine cellar," she growled. "These two get dealt with right here."

"Frankie's killer's gonna get away for good," Ralph told her. "That what Mr. White wants?"

The woman raised her nine-millimeter. It was a newer model Beretta, a 9000S with a compact barrel and a discreet black finish. I imagined it would make an elegant hole in my chest.

A man's voice said, "Madeleine."

The young woman's face filled with bitterness, as if she'd just been caught sneaking out after curfew.

At the top of the stairwell, leaning heavily on a cane, looking infinitely older and frailer than when I'd seen him last, stood a white-haired man. He wore a burgundy Turkish bathrobe. His face was the color of milk.

"What is this," Guy White murmured, "about my son?"

WE WERE THROWN DOWN ON THE carpet of Mr. White's study. Persian weave. Silk. I'd had my face slammed against worse.

"Enough, Madeleine," Mr. White said.

The demon girl's foot eased off my back. She yanked me to kneeling position, dragged me backward and shoved me into a plush armchair. Next to me, Ralph got a similar treatment from Alex the goon.

Guy White stood in front of us, staring out his library windows.

His back lawn spread to the horizon. The workers were everywhere, setting up the tent and the banquet tables and the Christmas decorations on the denuded grass.

"It's been a long time, gentlemen." Mr. White turned.

He had once been a handsome man - tan, blue eyes, trim figure. He loved spending time in his garden. He boasted of never being sick. At forty, he'd looked twenty-five. At sixty-two, when I'd last seen him, he could've passed for fifty. A local curandero once assured me Senor White had made a pact with the devil for eternal youth.

Now, as he was approaching seventy, it looked like the devil had decided to collect.

His gaze was as fierce as I remembered, but the skin under his eyes was translucent. His lips were colorless. He reminded me of a corpse with a light inside.

"Lymphoma," he said, answering the question I didn't dare ask. "I don't make many public appearances these days. Not to worry, however. My doctors are quite optimistic."

His eyes glittered as if this were deeply humorous. "Now, gentlemen, enlighten me. What do you claim to know about my son's murder?"

"Sir," Madeleine protested.

White held up his hand.

He gave me a smile that might've been mistaken as kind, if you weren't used to dealing with reptiles. "You must excuse Madeleine. She believes I'm easily taken advantage of. A dying man, still doting over a dead, worthless son."

"Sir, I never - "

"You'd never say so to my face," he agreed. "You don't need to."

Alex cleared his throat. "I tried to tell her, Mr. W. I thought you should make the call."

"Your sensitivity to my wishes is appreciated, Alex Cole."

"Sir," Madeleine said, now gritting her teeth, "the last private investigator - "

"Yes, my dear. The last private investigator took my money, taxed my health, played my hopes for nothing. But you paid him accordingly, did you not?"

White offered me another cold smile.

I wondered what lake that PI was floating at the bottom of.

"I understand from the news you are both wanted men," White told us casually. "Shot your wife, did you, Mr. Arguello?"

"No, patron," Ralph replied. "I didn't."

Mr. White gave him a sympathetic look. "You put me in an awkward situation. I have my annual Christmas party tonight. I must keep up appearances, you know. Show my, ah, business associates I'm still alive. On top of this, I have the Secret Service hovering outside my house."

"Secret Service?" I asked.

Ralph looked at me. "You owe me ten bucks."

"My point, gentlemen," White said, his voice