The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan (26 page)

She turned with a prepackaged smile. "If it
isn't the P.I. Don't tell me — you happen to work at the
kindergarten, too."

"Whoa. I'm just dropping off."

She pulled her elbow away. "Oh, por favor."

"Seriously. Kid in the green shirt."

I pointed out Jem, who was now whacking the ball
against the wallboard. Michael was on his team.

Ines appraised me skeptically. She held up one hand
to block the sun, her fingers making shadow bars across her nose.
"I'm trying to decide whether you'd rent a kid just to have an
excuse to follow me."

"He's my boss's son. And don't give her any
ideas about renting him out."

Ines let her shoulders relax just a little, dropped
her hand. "I'll assume you're telling the truth. I don't know
why. But don't expect an apology."

"My expectations in that department are low.
How's your move coming along?"

She gazed past me, toward the playground. "Del
was generous — a whole three days to pack. I've leased an apartment
on" — she stopped herself — "near Woodlawn Lake."

"Why this school?"

"The public schools in this neighborhood..."
She shook her head. "I went through a poor school system like
that. No way my son is going to. I want to be out of San Antonio by
next fall, but if I can't..."

"What'll you do for money?"

"That's my problem." She tugged the sleeves
of her quilt jacket over her wrists. The right cuff had a black
smudge on it — maybe mascara. "As long as I find Michael
someplace safe."

"Safe." I thought about Michael's sheet
cave.

"Exactly. Now if you'll excuse me. It's been a
treat, but—"
 

"You must have a lot of packing to do."

"Yes."

"Packed the sheet cave yet?"

Her eyes heated to the temperature of espresso. She
stepped forward, put her hand on my chest, and gave one hard push.

"Basta ya," she hissed. "I've let you
into my house twice. That doesn't give you the right—"

"Speak softly," I warned.

From the back fence, Mrs. T., the kindergarten
teacher, was watching us, smiling nervously, probably making mental
notes for the boys' admissions files. The kindergartners continued to
play. Swings creaked. The ball pounded off the backboard in Jem and
Michael's game. A little girl at the top of the blue and beige
play-structure tower was pounding her feet on the metal, yelling that
she was the queen and nobody could get her.

"You don't have any idea," Ines told me.
"You don't know what it's like keeping a routine for my son's
sake. Getting him up every morning. Getting him dressed and fed. You
don't know how hard it was just getting him here today."

"Asking for sympathy?"

"You fucking better know I'm not."

"Because I could sympathize. It was hard getting
Jem here today, too, Mrs. Brandon. You know where he and I were last
night? You remember that man I asked you about — the one you didn't
know, Hector Mara? He went over to my friend's house last night. Good
friend of mine — George Berton. The two of them were talking,
probably about your husband's murder, when somebody came in and shot
them both."

Ines' face had turned chalky. "I don't..."

She took a step sideways toward a small live oak tree
and steadied herself against the trunk.

"Mara's dead," I told her. "My
friend's not quite — yet. Jem, his mom, and I walked in right after
the shootings, stayed at the scene until almost two."

"What do you want me to say?" Ines asked me
harshly. "That I'm sorry?"

"Somebody with a .357 put my friend into a coma.
That person is still out there."

"I didn't ask your friend to get involved, Mr.
Navarre. Or you, for that matter."

"That's right. You're right. Forget the
shootings are connected to your husband's murder. I don't know why I
thought you'd care."

"Don't you dare presume to know what I care
about."

"Look, Ines—"

"Go away, goddamn you. Leave Michael and me
alone."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, tried to remember I
didn't have a reason to be arguing with this woman. "I need some
help."

"I don't want any part of it."

"My guess is that your brother-in-law Del is
behind the shootings somehow. He and a heroin dealer named Chich
Gutierrez. You're telling me you wouldn't like a chance to nail Del
Brandon?"

"I can't help."

Mrs. T. rang a handbell. Kids dropped off playground
equipment and started forming lines in front of the classroom doors.
Jem was in the middle, walking with his fingers pinched to the shirt
of the boy in front of him. The teacher glanced uneasily in our
direction one more time, then followed her charges inside.

"The kids get out at one-thirty," I told
Ines. "What are you doing until then?" She was silent, her
lips thin and angry.

"You have other plans?"

"The move—"

"Yeah," I said. "Michael's room. Come
with me instead. Help me dredge my car out of the river."

She stared at me, then laughed uneasily. "What?"

"You heard me. How often do you get an offer
like that?"

Her mouth quivered, formed a fragile smile. "I
don't even like you."

"So come watch me be humiliated. It'll be a
blast."

She looked down toward the street, her mouth
hardening again. "Would we be even?"

"What?"

"You drove me home from Aaron's office
Wednesday. If I drive you today, would we be even?"

She held out her hand. I shook it.

"Charm and diplomacy win again," I said.

"That," Ines Brandon said, "and the
fact I never want to owe you anything, Mr. Navarre. Never."

Then she turned and started down the sidewalk toward
her car, leaving me to follow or not.
 

TWENTY-NINE

"At least your VW knew when to quit," Ozzie
Gerson said.

We were standing in the drainage channel on the banks
of the river, watching the tow-truck guys connect their winch hooks
to the carcass of my VW. Ines Brandon sat nearby on the hood of
Ozzie's police unit.

The VW lay on its back, half submerged, bashed to
hell on the passenger's side and smeared with toilet paper and river
garbage. During the night some adventurous kids had come by and
spray-painted PUTA!! in white across the VW's exposed underbelly.
Whore. The final indignity to an old, unappreciated
dame.

Up on the rim of the ditch I could see the flattened
section of guardrail the Bug had smashed through, the path of
destruction it had made rolling down the muddy slope through the
bushes. The chaparral I'd been thrown into was about thirty feet from
the first point of impact on the slope. I was trying to figure out
how I'd ended up there in one piece.

"You got lucky." Ozzie's pale blue eyes
were cold with anger and frustration. "Luckier than Berton,
anyway."

"You offered to help," I reminded Ozzie. "I
need to know where to find Chich Gutierrez."

The mechanics attached the first hook to the VW's
fender and pulled the line tight. Metal groaned. I think maybe I did,
too.

Gerson lifted his left arm stiffly, testing the
muscles. The bandages under his uniform shirt crinkled. "You
sure that's your job — taking revenge?"

"Anything I needed, you said."

"I don't want you getting killed on my watch,
Tres. Your father'd haunt me forever."

The tow-truck guys started their winch motor. More
groaning metal. The motor bellowed like a wounded sea lion but made
no discernible progress getting the VW out of the muck.

"Tell me everything," Ozzie said.

I told him about the SWAT raid at Hector Mara's
house; the George Berton cigar wrapper in Sandra's closet; the white
van I'd chased down Riverside. I told him, too, about Ray Lozano's
read of the crime scene at Palo Blanco.

"George found out something about the Brandon
murder," I said. "Something that bothered him enough to try
solving it quietly, on his own. He talked to Hector Mara at the Poco
Mas on Wednesday. Then he had another meeting with Mara last night.
He and Hector were coming to some kind of agreement. I don't know
what it was, but George intended to have the case wrapped up with
Mara's help by the time Erainya and I showed. The guys in the white
van didn't let it happen."

Ozzie moved his arm again, swore softly. "If
George was trying to get Hector Mara to sell out Chich Gutierrez, you
can bet Chich would get wind of it. Chich would've had men shadowing
Hector. They would've seen him go into George's house and known it
was time to hit."

We were back where we started. "So where do I
find Chich?"

"Leave that to SAPD. You gave them enough to
work with, kid. Don't repeat George's mistakes."

I looked over at Ines, her arms hugging her
chocolate-and-beige coat. The wind coming down the drainage ditch
made her red hair flicker.

"Aaron Brandon's widow?" Ozzie asked me.

"We met by accident."

"The lady doesn't belong here. And you're not in
any shape to be helping each other."

"The lady doesn't want any part of the
investigation."

Ozzie nodded, eyes still on Ines. "She's the
smart one, then. You been to see George yet?"

"I'm supposed to go this evening."

"I just called the hospital an hour ago,"
Ozzie said. "His left lung was removed."

"He'll make it."

"A ventilator's breathing for his right lung.
He's got a fever from the infection and the antibiotics can't kick
it. He's dying, kid."

"He'll make it," I repeated.

Ozzie gave me a weary look. "There's one more
thing I thought I'd tell you. I'm resigning from the department."

The winch motor cut off. The VW hadn't budged. The
tow-truck guys broke out a pack of cigarettes and stared resentfully
at the VWs underbelly as they lit up.

"Early retirement for disability," Ozzie
continued. "Half pension." He raised the arm. "The
doctor's pressuring me about this. I'm beginning to think he's got a
point."

"That's not how you felt yesterday."

"Yesterday was a long time ago, in a comfortable
bed. This thing with George, after me getting shot the same week... I
started thinking about me and Audrey in Cancun, how we could be there
sipping margaritas this time next week. We both got a little money
saved up. It's starting to sound real good, kid. What'd you think old
Sheriff Navarre would say?"

"You got an extra seat on the plane?'"

Ozzie laughed.

One of the mechanics yelled to him to come help with
the cables.

"Idiots should've brought a mobile crane,"
Ozzie grumbled. "When I get this heap of yours out of the river,
kid, I'm slapping a big-ass ticket on the windshield."

"There is no windshield."

Ozzie muttered some more colorful observations about
life, then walked down to the tow truck.

I picked my way downstream to Ines.

"Your friend doesn't like me," she said.

"He likes you fine. He thinks you're the smart
one."

"Really."

"Sure. Compared to me."

Ines gazed up at the flattened section of guardrail.
In full daylight, the tiny scar on the bridge of her nose was whiter.
I found myself wondering how she'd broken it, how she'd look without
that slight bend.

She said, "Mr. Navarre—"

"Tres."

She paused, seemed to be mentally tasting my name. I
guess it didn't taste that good. "Mr. Navarre. I've already told
you. I can't help you."

"The dead man I told you about, Hector Mara, the
fact that he might've known your brother-in-law Del — that doesn't
bother you?"

"Hostia! Everything about my ex-brother-in-law
bothers me. Talking about him doesn't help."

She pulled herself up onto the hood of the police
car, crossed her legs at the ankles. Peeking out the tips of her cord
sandals were scarlet toenails, with flesh-colored smiles around the
cuticles where the nails had started to grow out. I tried to imagine
what color Ana DeLeon would paint her toenails. Steel-gray? Black?

I mentally slapped myself. "The first time we
spoke, you recognized Hector Mara's name."

Ines' fingertip inscribed something in slow cursive
on the hood of the car. She stared down resentfully at her own
invisible message. "I suppose if I denied that—"

"I'd only wonder why you were lying."

A sour smile. "It would never occur to you that
I'm lying because I hate you, would it?"

"Never in a million years."