Ralph had promised Ana he’d go clean when they got married. He’d dropped out of the street scene, turned over his shops to his managers, become a stay-at-home dad. These days, the most dangerous thing he did was trading on eBay.
Until tonight.
BY THE TIME RALPH CAME OUT of the bathroom, showered and dressed in a spare set of Sam’s clothes, I was sitting in the rocking chair of my upstairs bedroom, Robert Johnson purring like a low-rider engine in my lap.
The cat made a chirping sound and leapt to the floor as soon as he saw Ralph. He padded over and began rubbing against Ralph’s legs.
Ralph is allergic to cats. Cats, of course, know this. They think he’s the best thing since flaked tuna.
“So what happened?” I asked Ralph. “Exactly.”
He faced the mirror, buttoned Sam’s linen shirt. “I needed information.”
“You must’ve needed it pretty bad.”
He rolled the cuffs. His unbraided hair made a wet black fan across the baggy shoulders of the shirt.
I’d always thought of Ralph and Sam as about the same size—both heavyset men, both with a juggernaut aura that came from their reputations. But Sam’s clothes were much too big on Ralph. The gray slacks sagged. The cuffs crumpled around his bare feet, as if Ralph had shrunk in the shower. I realized he would’ve done better in my clothes. It hadn’t even occurred to me that they might fit.
“I’ve been accused of something,” he said finally. “Ana . . . she found out about it. I need to clear myself. Zapata was my best lead.”
“What’s the crime?”
He stared at the mirror. “I told Zapata I’d meet him at Jarrasco’s tonight, down on South Flores—”
“I know where Jarrasco’s is.”
“He wasn’t there. Two guys intercepted me. Big cholo with red hair. I didn’t know him. A thinner guy I recognized, one of Zapata’s enforcers. They lured me out back. I was stupid as shit. The big one pinned me. Thin guy brought out a hunting knife. You know Zapata . . . what he likes his guys to do with knives. I got one arm free, got to my gun. I don’t know—I didn’t have a choice. I shot the thin guy in the gut, point-blank. The big one released me from shock, I guess. I ran.”
His hands were trembling on top of the dresser.
“You sure he’s dead?” I said.
Ralph nodded. “Cops’ll be after me.”
“It was self-defense, like you said.” I tried to sound reassuring. “Shooting one of Zapata’s goons—shit, police’ll probably give you a medal.”
“I’m not talking about for that.”
Without the glasses, Ralph’s eyes were unnerving—hot and raw, like holes in the ozone.
“This crime you’re accused of,” I said, “the one you don’t want to tell me about . . . the police have any evidence?”
“I shouldn’t be here, vato. Shouldn’t get you involved.”
“Don’t worry. Whatever’s wrong—”
The doorbell rang downstairs.
Ralph looked at the bedroom window, but there was nothing to see on this side of the house—just the old fire escape ladder, the backyard, the alley.
“Sam and Mrs. Loomis?” Ralph asked.
I shook my head. “Too soon. I’ll check it out.”
“It’s the police.”
“It isn’t the police. Just sit tight. Watch my cat.”
“That fire escape work?”
“Ralph—”
“I haven’t told you everything, vato. If it’s the police, I can’t surrender.”
The doorbell rang again.
Robert Johnson said, “Murrrp?”
I scooped him off the floor, handed him to Ralph. “You guys make nice. Don’t do anything stupid.”
At the bottom of the stairs, I remembered the gun box in my dresser drawer. Ralph knew I kept it there. He knew the combination. My dad’s .38 had been confiscated after the Vale shooting, but I still had a .22. I didn’t want it in Ralph’s hands, the way he was acting.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t turn back. One of my homicide department admirers was glaring at me through the glass panel of the front door, waiting to be let in.
“OPEN,” DETECTIVE KELSEY GRUNTED AT ME through the screen door. “Now.”
For Kelsey, this was downright civil. That made me nervous.
Kelsey was an ex-SWAT member with a face like a battering ram. He wore a cheap blue suit with an American flag on the lapel. His eyes were marksman eyes. Everything he examined was either a potential kill or useless. He’d also been Ana DeLeon’s partner until she got promoted over him and became his supervisor.
Alone, Kelsey wouldn’t have bothered me. But the head of homicide, Lieutenant Herberto “Etch” Hernandez, was standing behind him, flanked by a couple of uniforms.
I let them in.
Kelsey took a seat on the sofa. Lieutenant Hernandez drifted toward the fireplace and studied the labeled photos of Sam Barrera’s family. The uniforms stayed by the front door and glared at me.
“Look,” I said, “if this is about the Vale shooting . . .”
Kelsey picked up one of Mrs. Loomis’ glass knickknacks, turned it so it magnified the knife scars on his fingers. “You watch TV in the last hour, Navarre? Listen to the radio?”
Somewhere down in my gut, a lead-weighted fishing hook made a tiny splash.
I was used to cops being mad at me, but there was something different about the level of anger here—a barely restrained thirst for violence so strong I could feel it arcing between the four men.
“I’ve been busy,” I managed.
Lieutenant Hernandez turned toward me. His Armani suit was immaculate as always, his ash-gray hair combed and gelled. He exuded such power and style he could’ve passed for an investment banker, but tonight his face was gaunt, grief-stricken. “Mr. Navarre, we’re looking for your friend Ralph Arguello. We’re hoping you can tell us where he is.”
Four sets of cop eyes drilled into me.
“You work with his wife,” I said. “If Ana doesn’t know—”