Mission Road by Rick Riordan

true. In my case, “friends” was pushing it, but I tried to look, well . . . friendly.
    “My wife,” Ralph said, “Ana DeLeon—”
    “The homicide detective,” White said.
    “—she was reopening Frankie’s murder case.”
    White tugged the cuff of his Turkish bathrobe. “I knew nothing of this.”
    “Ana had a fresh lead. She was getting ready to make an arrest when somebody shot her.”
    “The police say
you
shot her.”
    “’Course they do.” Ralph’s voice was raw. “The police hate my guts. They didn’t want Ana reopening your son’s murder case, ’cause they hate
your
guts, too. But Ana was my wife. I’d never shoot her. The person who shot her was the suspect. Frankie’s killer.”
    Ralph’s gaze was so steady even I was impressed.
    Guy White cupped his hand, as if to gather the pale winter light coming through the window. “What do you propose?”
    “Sir, no,” Madeleine protested.
    “I need to find this guy to clear myself,” Ralph told Guy White. “You want to find him, too. We have a common goal.”
    Madeleine exhaled. “Sir, they have
nothing
to offer you. We’ve tried . . .
you’ve
tried for eighteen years. If there was a way—”
    “All we need is some discreet help,” I put in. “Wheels. Clothes. Firepower. Your leverage to open a few doors. What have you got to lose?”
    White pondered this. His face gleamed from the tiny effort of speaking with us. He looked impossibly ancient, nothing like the man I remembered. “Mr. Navarre, do you truly believe you can find my son’s killer?”
    “I believe I have no choice.”
    White’s eyes betrayed nothing. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you. You’re good. Probably better than you realize. I’ve heard you can find anyone.”
    “This is bullshit,” Madeleine spat.
    I wondered how Madeleine had kept her job and her life this long, with an attitude like hers. From her colleague Alex’s disdainful sneer, I figured he was wondering the same thing.
    “My resources are at your disposal,” White decided.
    “Sir!”
    “However,” White said, ignoring her, “one of my people will be with you at all times.”
    “I’ll do it, Mr. W,” Alex piped in.
    “If I find you are using me, gentlemen,” White continued, “your life expectancy will be even shorter than mine. Alex, you stay here. Madeleine will see to their needs.”
    “What?”
she demanded.
    “Go with them,” White commanded. “Cooperate with them. Watch them.”
    “Frankie isn’t worth the effort. I don’t want this job.” Her fists were balled, her voice simmered.
    Guy White raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have any choice, my dear. After all, he
was
your brother.”

“SO YOU TOLD HER NOTHING,” ETCH SAID.
    The old medical examiner, Jaime Santos, leaned against his porch railing.
    Down below, winter mist filled the Olmos Basin. The pewter line of the dam cut through marshes and soccer fields, marching toward the hills where chimney smoke trailed up from the roofs of mansions.
    “Nothing,” Santos agreed. “I mean . . . what would be the point?”
    Santos met his eyes, then looked away.
    He’s lying,
Etch thought.
    Doctors were not cops. They couldn’t pull off a lie.
    Santos had aged since retirement. His eyes had turned soft and desperate. His chest caved inward. His hair had worn down to gray patches like a bad coat of primer.
    “Miss Lee seems smart.” Santos tried to sound casual about it. “She asked about the blood under Frankie White’s fingernails.”
    Etch sipped his
atole.
    It had been years since he had the stuff. The cinnamon and chocolate sent him back to Christmas at his
abuela
’s—stockings, presents, family dinners.
    It had been a long time since he’d thought of Christmas as anything but sweep season for homicides.
    “We got a DNA match,” he told Santos. “Ana’s husband—Ralph Arguello. Ana didn’t want to accept that. She claimed the test was tampered with.”
    “One could fake something like that. You’d have to