Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)

Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6) Page 9

Ralph put his hands in his lap. “It’s a trap.”

There was a glint of movement on the roof of Mi Tierra, just at the corner of the building.

“I’m sorry, Tres,” Larry said. “I don’t have a choice. Mr. Arguello, put your hands on top of your head, please, very slowly.”

“A cross fire,” I grumbled. “Damn you, Larry.”

“Why don’t you use that little two-way radio in your ear,” Ralph said evenly. “Tell your friends I got a pistol under my napkin, aimed straight at your dick.”

“Shoot,” Larry dared him. “Sniper on the parking garage roof will take off your head. Otherwise, put your hands up and we’ll wait for the SWAT team to join—”

Ralph overturned the table into Larry’s lap.

I rolled to the ground and got up running.

Ralph was way ahead of me. He dove behind the only other occupied table—the family of startled tourists—and burst into the restaurant where the crowd was thicker.

There was no snap of gunfire. No clear shot.

We wove through the dining room, knocking down waiters and kicking over breakfast platters. Larry Drapiewski was yelling and cursing behind us.

I glanced back long enough to see two SWAT guys in full combat gear jump the patio railing. Both were carrying assault rifles.

Nice to feel wanted.

“Not the front,” Ralph warned.

He was right. Two uniformed deputies were pushing through the hostess’s line, knocking over baskets of pralines.

Fortunately, Ralph and I knew Mi Tierra better than most places on earth. I’d been coming here since age fifteen. I’d retched my first pitcher of margaritas into their men’s room toilet.

We burst into the kitchen, ran for the delivery ramp. Cops behind us yelled at the dishwashers: “Get down!”

Finally one of the smarter cops yelled it in Spanish, but by the time he got off a shot we were through the service exit.

I didn’t notice the uniformed officer outside the door until it was too late.

“Vato!” Ralph yelled.

The deputy was waiting to the side of the kitchen entrance, his gun drawn, ready to fire at whoever came through first. That happened to be me.

In a heartbeat, I registered his cocky smile, the gleam in his eyes that told me he intended to shoot first and make up a good story later. I watched him level the gun, then wham. I went flying sideways, the air slammed out of me. The pistol cracked.

When I looked up, the deputy was crumpled on the curb. Ralph’s knuckles were bleeding. I could hear the other cops still pushing and cursing their way through the kitchen, trying to shove through the mob of upset dishwashers.

“Come on!” Ralph ordered. He yanked me to my feet and ran.

I shook off my daze and followed. When I caught up, Ralph had already stopped a cab and pulled out the driver. I had just enough time to jump in the back before Ralph peeled out, the cabbie screaming and running after us, providing beautiful cover from the cops who were trying to take aim at us.

We heard a lot of sirens, saw a lot of lights, but they were too slow bringing around the helicopter. A critical mistake. We shot under Interstate 10 and into the labyrinth of the West Side, which opened up to embrace us like a mother.

EIGHT MINUTES LATER WE WERE SHIVERING in a storm drain off Palo Alto, listening to the police helicopter circle overhead and the sirens wail.

We’d left our cab half submerged in the lake of Our Lady of the Lake University, the car’s back end sticking up like the Iwo Jima Monument. The way Ralph and I figured it, SAPD would have to dispatch at least five cops to deal with that new neighborhood conversation piece, which left only two thousand and fifty on the force to search the West Side for us.

Ralph kicked the corrugated metal of the storm drain as if it were Larry Drapiewski’s face.

“You saved me back there,” I said. “You pushed me out of the way.”

The look Ralph gave me was the same he’d given Frankie White, years ago, when Frankie made a comment about Ralph beating up his stepfather. A blank stare—as if I were questioning something that was completely obvious. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

Ralph shrugged.

Despite my gratitude, that made me angry. Here I was trying to save his butt . . . He was the one with the family. He was supposed to know better than to risk himself.

“What did Larry mean,” I asked, “about Frankie’s victims?”

Ralph wrapped his bleeding knuckles in his shirt. “That was after high school, ’round ’86, ’87. You seriously never heard?”

I shook my head. Those years had been a daze for me. My father had been murdered in ’85. Shortly afterward, I’d fled San Antonio for the Bay Area and tried to sever my Texas roots as much as possible.

“Frankie was getting into trouble,” Ralph said. “I mean . . . bad trouble.”

Some of my memories about Frankie White started weaving together—the image of him staring at Ralph’s fourteen-year-old cousin through the window, other things I hadn’t thought about in a long time. I remembered my dad’s old stories about Frankie’s father, Guy White, and some of the things Guy had done in his youth to prove his power. A few of those exploits had supposedly driven his wife to an early grave.

“Frankie’s trouble,” I said. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with women, would it?”

Ralph nodded. “When it started getting bad . . . I mean, so bad it was affecting his family, Mr. White talked to me about him. You know, helping him settle down. Finding a business he liked.”

“Mr. White came to you?”

“Maybe it was a little bit my idea. But Mr. White and I were square, vato. After Frankie died, I got nothing out of that. Took me five years to pay back Mr. White for the money Frankie had fronted me, but I did it. I paid off the pawnshops free and clear. I’m not crazy.”

I tried to imagine how much trouble Frankie could’ve been in for Guy White to see Ralph as a moderating influence on his son. It wasn’t easy.

The police helicopter made another pass overhead, the rotors’ noise making the loose rivets of the storm drain rattle.

Ralph said, “I am thinking about her, you know.”

“Ana?”

“The baby.” Ralph closed his eyes. “Drapiewski said I have a daughter to think about. I been afraid since the day she was born that something in my past would come back to hurt her. Last two years, vato . . . I felt like I’ve been loaned somebody else’s life, you know? Never deserved this kind of luck. Best two years I ever had.”

I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure how. He was talking about the two years when I’d been part of his life the least.

“We’ll figure out something,” I managed. “What about the hit man Drapiewski mentioned? You ever heard of Titus Roe?”

Ralph kicked at a puddle of icy water. “Just stories. None of them good.”

“Could we find him?”

“If he’s still around. Zapata could point us the right way. They knew each other.”

“You already tried Zapata. He baited you.”

“I still think he knows something, vato. He got the blame for Frankie’s death. Suffered bad from that gang war with White. I’m sure he made it his business to find out what really happened to Frankie. If I could just get Zapata alone, corner him for five minutes without him trying to kill my ass—”

“He makes himself hard to find,” I reminded Ralph. “We’ve got no resources. No money. No wheels. And only forty-eight hours.”

Ralph checked his watch. “Forty-three hours.”

The chopper thundered overhead.

I thought about what Larry Drapiewski had said: Nobody on the right side of the law is going to help you.

And I got my worst idea yet, which was saying something, considering the banner week I was having.

I locked eyes with Ralph. “We need to find Frankie White’s killer. And we can’t do it without help.”

“There is no help. Not a single person cares enough about who killed Frankie to risk their neck.”

“I can think of one person.”

Ralph stared at me, slowly getting it. “You’re crazy.”

“Lots of resources. Plenty of clout. No love for the police.”

“And he won’t know I need killing for a whole two days.”

I spread my hands. The suicidal logic was perfect. “Let’s go knock on Guy White’s door.”

Chapter 5

“LIEUTENANT?” MAIA ASKED.

Etch Hernandez stood at the ICU window, fingering something in the pocket of his tailored wool slacks. When he turned, Maia was sorry she’d interrupted him. His face was raw with emotion.

“They said she was a little better.” He struggled to get his voice under control. “I was hoping . . .”

He didn’t need to finish.

On the other side of the glass, Ana DeLeon lay webbed in tubes and wires. A nurse was changing her IV. Another was frowning at the heart monitor.

To believe there was a human being in the hospital bed, Maia had to concentrate on small details—a glossy black wisp of hair curled against the pillow, a smooth stretch of forearm exposed against the white sheet.

If this was better, Ana DeLeon was in bad shape indeed.

“Has she ever regained consciousness?” Maia asked.

The lieutenant shook his head. “The surgery—they said it went well . . .”

The nurses worked grimly, aware of their audience. Their expressions reminded Maia of jurors about to return a verdict.

In a weak show of optimism, someone had placed a picture of Ana’s baby on the bed stand. In case Ana woke up, it would be there to comfort her. There were no pictures of Ralph.

Hernandez took his hand out of his pocket. He scooped his cashmere coat off a nearby chair. “I have to go before your friend makes another headline.”

“What do you mean?”

He gave her a hard stare. “Assuming that’s an honest question? An hour ago, Navarre and Arguello set up a meeting downtown with a retired deputy, Larry Drapiewski. Drapiewski alerted the Sheriff’s Department. The hotshots in county SWAT were stupid enough to try setting a trap on their own. Without notifying SAPD.”

Maia processed this, trying not to show her anxiety. “Tres and Ralph got away?”

“After threatening Mr. Drapiewski, endangering a restaurant full of tourists, assaulting a deputy and stealing a cab at gunpoint, yes. I’ve told the sheriff I never want to see his deputies again. That’s why I’m here. I’m placing my own men in charge of guarding Sergeant DeLeon.”

Which explained, Maia thought, the dour-faced SAPD uniform who had frisked her at the door.

Hernandez put on his coat. “Our goodwill toward your boyfriend has pretty much evaporated, Miss Lee. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Why did you try to warn Ana off the Franklin White case?”

He scowled. “Who says I did?”

“Your good cop. Kelsey.”

Hernandez’s face darkened. “I’m not sure why he’d . . . I didn’t discourage Ana. I only told her it would stir up bad memories. As I said, Miss Lee, on this case, I’ve tried very hard to distance myself.”