Read Online The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan by Rick Riordan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rick Riordan
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some
childhood accident. She had the faintest white scar across the
bridge, about where reading glasses would sit. Whatever she'd run
into so long ago, she looked like she'd never quite gotten over the
indignation.
"You can goddamn well let me go," she
growled.
I released her wrist, took away the photograph she'd
been about to throw. Mrs. Brandon stepped back and sank to the edge
of the sofa.
Her eyes became hot and vacant, like jettisoned
rocket rings.
"Well?" She gestured around listlessly.
"Ask your questions. Search the house. What do I care? It's not
mine anymore."
I looked at the photo — a wedding picture of her
and Aaron, taken in front of a grimy adobe chapel with freestanding
pink silk flower arrangements on either side. The setting, and the
look of desperate, guilty excitement in the young couple's eyes,
screamed bordertown wedding. I set the photo back on the table.
"RideWorks holds the lease on your house,"
I said. "Del's kicking you out?"
"That's my brother-in-law."
"Quite a human being. How's your son holding
up?"
She pressed at the corners of her eyes. "Leave
Michael out of this."
"He's here?"
"He's with Paloma. Our — my maid. I couldn't
have Michael here with Del coming over. My brother-in-law and I —
we aren't exactly cordial."
"Nice guy like Gorilla-Head? Hard to imagine."
She studied my face more closely.
"You were on the news today," she decided.
"When they showed that man's arrest. You're with the sheriffs
department?"
"Tres Navarre. I'm a private investigator."
She mouthed the word private. "A real P.I.
You're joking. For UTSA?"
"Yes."
"Ah-ha. The University wants to be sure they're
not liable for Aaron's death."
"Something like that."
She laughed without humor. "I'm not going to
sue, P.I. Tell them not to worry."
"The man in custody — Zeta Sanchez. Had your
husband ever mentioned him?"
"Don't you have someplace better to be?"
"Or Del? Did he ever mention Zeta Sanchez?"
"Del doesn't talk to me unless he's kicking me
off his property. Or calling me a Mexican whore. Sorry."
I looked at the fireplace.
"My language embarrass you?" Ines Brandon
demanded.
"No. But keep trying if you want to. Your son's
not home. You might as well cut loose."
Her face reddened. She made a fist and then couldn't
seem to decide what to do with it. She flattened it on her thigh, dug
her fingers into the flesh above her knee. "I don't think I like
you very much, P.I."
I tapped one of the boxes with my foot. "Where
to? Back home to Del Rio?"
She punished me with some silence. I counted to
fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Tres Navarre, tai chi sage. Man with the
Patience of Mountains. Finally Mrs. Brandon glared up at me,
annoyed that I had not yet spontaneously combusted. "I can't go
home. Too much to take care of here. Michael and I are getting a
small apartment for a few months. The police—" She faltered,
took a shaky breath. "The police suggested I make no immediate
plans to leave town."
"You were away when your husband was murdered,
weren't you?"
"In Del Rio with my son, visiting friends. But
you never know. I might've—"
Her voice broke apart. "I might've paid that
Sanchez man. The police can't be too careful. I might've — oh,
shit."
She slid from the arm of the couch into the seat,
brought up her legs and hugged them, her forehead on her knees.
I waited while she shivered silently. I found myself
looking at the mantelpiece, the gunshot holes in the limestone. I
stepped back toward the front door, ran my fingers along the
doorjamb, then went to the front window, looked at the latch.
"Did your husband have a gun?"
She spoke into her knees. "They already asked. A
.38. In the bedroom closet. I hated Aaron keeping it in the house
with Michael."
"And it's still in the closet?"
"It was. The police took it."
"No forced entry. Your husband answered the door
wearing nothing but his jeans. He let his killer in, made no attempt
to get his own gun. They talked in the living room, standing
childhood accident. She had the faintest white scar across the
bridge, about where reading glasses would sit. Whatever she'd run
into so long ago, she looked like she'd never quite gotten over the
indignation.
"You can goddamn well let me go," she
growled.
I released her wrist, took away the photograph she'd
been about to throw. Mrs. Brandon stepped back and sank to the edge
of the sofa.
Her eyes became hot and vacant, like jettisoned
rocket rings.
"Well?" She gestured around listlessly.
"Ask your questions. Search the house. What do I care? It's not
mine anymore."
I looked at the photo — a wedding picture of her
and Aaron, taken in front of a grimy adobe chapel with freestanding
pink silk flower arrangements on either side. The setting, and the
look of desperate, guilty excitement in the young couple's eyes,
screamed bordertown wedding. I set the photo back on the table.
"RideWorks holds the lease on your house,"
I said. "Del's kicking you out?"
"That's my brother-in-law."
"Quite a human being. How's your son holding
up?"
She pressed at the corners of her eyes. "Leave
Michael out of this."
"He's here?"
"He's with Paloma. Our — my maid. I couldn't
have Michael here with Del coming over. My brother-in-law and I —
we aren't exactly cordial."
"Nice guy like Gorilla-Head? Hard to imagine."
She studied my face more closely.
"You were on the news today," she decided.
"When they showed that man's arrest. You're with the sheriffs
department?"
"Tres Navarre. I'm a private investigator."
She mouthed the word private. "A real P.I.
You're joking. For UTSA?"
"Yes."
"Ah-ha. The University wants to be sure they're
not liable for Aaron's death."
"Something like that."
She laughed without humor. "I'm not going to
sue, P.I. Tell them not to worry."
"The man in custody — Zeta Sanchez. Had your
husband ever mentioned him?"
"Don't you have someplace better to be?"
"Or Del? Did he ever mention Zeta Sanchez?"
"Del doesn't talk to me unless he's kicking me
off his property. Or calling me a Mexican whore. Sorry."
I looked at the fireplace.
"My language embarrass you?" Ines Brandon
demanded.
"No. But keep trying if you want to. Your son's
not home. You might as well cut loose."
Her face reddened. She made a fist and then couldn't
seem to decide what to do with it. She flattened it on her thigh, dug
her fingers into the flesh above her knee. "I don't think I like
you very much, P.I."
I tapped one of the boxes with my foot. "Where
to? Back home to Del Rio?"
She punished me with some silence. I counted to
fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Tres Navarre, tai chi sage. Man with the
Patience of Mountains. Finally Mrs. Brandon glared up at me,
annoyed that I had not yet spontaneously combusted. "I can't go
home. Too much to take care of here. Michael and I are getting a
small apartment for a few months. The police—" She faltered,
took a shaky breath. "The police suggested I make no immediate
plans to leave town."
"You were away when your husband was murdered,
weren't you?"
"In Del Rio with my son, visiting friends. But
you never know. I might've—"
Her voice broke apart. "I might've paid that
Sanchez man. The police can't be too careful. I might've — oh,
shit."
She slid from the arm of the couch into the seat,
brought up her legs and hugged them, her forehead on her knees.
I waited while she shivered silently. I found myself
looking at the mantelpiece, the gunshot holes in the limestone. I
stepped back toward the front door, ran my fingers along the
doorjamb, then went to the front window, looked at the latch.
"Did your husband have a gun?"
She spoke into her knees. "They already asked. A
.38. In the bedroom closet. I hated Aaron keeping it in the house
with Michael."
"And it's still in the closet?"
"It was. The police took it."
"No forced entry. Your husband answered the door
wearing nothing but his jeans. He let his killer in, made no attempt
to get his own gun. They talked in the living room, standing
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