A dark green Suburban pulled into the parking lot, and the TV reporters sprang into action. They clustered near the curb, blocking the path between the lot and the church entrance.
“Looks like they made the car,” Juarez muttered.
Ricky sighed. “Somebody probably saw them leave the house and called ahead. You think Kaitlin’s okay?”
She emerged from the Suburban, clinging to Manuel like a life raft. She wore a navy-blue dress and a tidy braid with a white bow at the end. Juarez swallowed the lump in his throat.
A hearse approached the church. Two of Juarez’s uncles stepped forward, both wearing white carnations in their lapels. The pallbearers.
“Looks like our cue,” Ricky said. “You ready?”
Juarez shrugged into his jacket and dug a flower out of his pocket. His mother had passed them out to her brothers and each of her sons earlier that morning.
Juarez set his jaw. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Feenie sat in her car, sweltering. Hair clung to her neck, and her feet already felt slimy in her patent-leather pumps. She was wearing her only black dress, which was linen—luckily—but stifling nonetheless.
She hated black, always had. The feeling had only intensified after she’d watched the parade of mourners at her mother and sister’s funeral. She remembered wanting to wear pink that day, because it was her mother’s favorite color, but her father had insisted on black, saying it was a sign of respect.
She opened her black handbag and dug out a lipstick. With painstaking care, she painted her mouth, then blotted the excess on a tissue.
She was stalling.
If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be late. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to start the car. Marco had slipped out of bed before dawn and left without a word. She wondered if he regretted coming over last night. She wondered what he’d say to her at the funeral, if anything. Maybe he’d want to pretend last night hadn’t happened. But it had. He’d been a willing participant—intoxicated, yes, but not so much so that he didn’t know what he was doing.
He’d known exactly what he was doing.
Sighing, Feenie shoved her key into the ignition and backed down the driveway. She hit a bump and realized she’d forgotten to bring in the morning paper. She put the car in park, opened the door, and snagged it off the ground. Her article about Mayfield’s recent housing boom had been slated for page one today. It was a good story, and she wanted to see what kind of play Grimes had given it.
She was stalling again. She pulled the rubber band off the paper and unfolded it in her lap.
She read the banner headline, and her heart skittered.
Ten minutes later, she slid into a parking space at Holy Trinity Catholic Church. Most of the mourners had already gone inside, but a crowd of media milled around near the entrance. A TV reporter with perfectly coiffed hair and a somber pantsuit stood before a camera. Feenie recognized her from the NBC affiliate in Corpus. McAllister stood behind her, interviewing a police officer. Feenie strode toward them, noting the SAPD insignia on the officer’s uniform.
“I have to talk to you, McAllister.”
He shot her a glare as he scribbled in his notebook. “Just a minute.”
“Now!” she snapped.
His eyebrows arched, and he flipped his pad shut. “Thanks for your comments, sir,” he said to the officer. Then he turned to Feenie. “What the fuck?”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Brassler story. What do you think I mean?”
He crossed his arms. “I thought you wanted to be left out of it. Anyway, I drove by your house last night, and Juarez’s truck was there, so I thought you knew.”
“Well, you thought wrong. Who called in the tip?”
“It was anonymous.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t bullshit me. Who called in the tip?”
“Who do you think? It came from an Internet café in Reynosa.” McAllister grinned. “I hear he even sent a map.”
She bit her lip. “When was the arrest?”
“Yesterday morning. Didn’t you read the story?”
“I skimmed the lead.”
He feigned shock. “You skimmed it? That was some damn good journalism. I have to tell you, Malone, I’m a little insulted.”
She shoved her purse under her arm. “It’s hard to read when you’re doing eighty down Main Street. We need to get in there. The mass is beginning.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Late start this morning?”
“Oh, shut up.”
They entered the church just as the priest started speaking. All the pews were filled, mostly with dark-haired, dark-dressed mourners. Feenie scanned the rows, recognizing a few familiar faces—Rosie, Chico, some local cops. A group of San Antonio police officers filled several pews in front of Feenie. They wore black armbands. The reporters had flocked to the opposite side, conspicuous with their recorders and notebooks. At least someone had had the sense to ban cameras. Feenie’s gaze settled on the white-haired clergyman with the stern expression. He didn’t look like someone who would put up with any sort of irreverence on his turf.
Her gaze wandered to the front pew. She recognized Maria sandwiched between two oversized men, then Kaitlin, then a man in an Army uniform, and then Marco.
He didn’t turn around. His stare remained fixed on the casket, even while everyone around him bent their heads, whispering and passing tissues. When the priest offered communion at the end of the mass, Marco stayed behind, hunched over the kneeler, while the rest of his family stepped forward and took the sacrament. She couldn’t tell if Marco was praying or crying. Either way, she guessed it was the closest he’d ever come to showing his emotions in public.
After the mass, Feenie’s row was nearly the last to exit. She stepped into the blazing sun, shielded her eyes, and glanced at the parking lot. A line of cars with headlights on had already rolled away from the church, headed for the cemetery.
“Need a ride?”
She turned and saw McAllister. Riding in his Jeep would trash her hairstyle, but it would give her a chance to pump him for information. She could pick her car up later.
“Sure,” she said.
As soon as they were moving, she started pelting him with questions.
“What kind of shape was Brassler in?”
McAllister cast her a sidelong glance. “Not good, from what I hear. He’s in a Mexican hospital at the moment, with a round-the-clock guard. As soon as he’s back on his feet, they’ll probably extradite him.”
“Extradite him? But how? Why? Wasn’t the murder in Mexico?”
McAllister shifted into fourth gear, speeding to catch up to rest of the procession. “Probably. But he’s wanted for more than a dozen murders, most of them in Texas. Plus, the FBI’s gotten involved, and they’re determined to get him back ASAP. They’ve really turned up the heat with the Mexican authorities.”
“Will he…die?” She dreaded the answer. Depending on what type of shape Brassler was in at the time of his arrest, Marco could still be brought up on murder charges.
McAllister tipped his head to the side. “Mexico won’t extradite him to face the death penalty.”
The death penalty? Feenie frowned. “I mean, could he die from his injuries?”
He gave her a curious look. “A broken arm isn’t fatal last time I checked.”
“A broken…? But I thought you said he was in the hospital?”
“Shit. You didn’t read anything I wrote, did you? He is in the hospital. But that’s just until he dries out. The guy’s a walking bottle of tequila. Had the DTs so bad he couldn’t even go before the judge yesterday.”
“You mean he’s an alcoholic?”
“Been on the downhill slide for years now, apparently.” McAllister turned left and rolled past some wrought-iron gates. He parked the Jeep behind a news van with a peacock logo on the side. Feenie sat, bewildered, as he made his way around to open her door
. “Now that he’s in custody, the feds have a mile-long list of things to try him for. The Juarez murder is right at the top.”
If they can ever prove it.
“But if he’s such a mess, how do they know he killed Paloma?” she asked.
He smirked. “That’s an excellent question, Malone. And I think I see someone who might know the answer.” He pulled a mini-tape recorder from his pocket and pressed the red button.
“Morning, Mr. Juarez. Is it true you told authorities where to find your sister’s killer?”
Feenie gasped and whirled around. Marco stood behind her, glowering. He snapped the recorder from McAllister’s hand and hummed it into some bushes.
“Fuck off,” he snarled.
McAllister had the good judgment not to push it. He was lucky he hadn’t been tossed in the bushes.
Marco pulled Feenie aside. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
She looked over his shoulder at the knot of mourners on the lawn. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your family?”
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
“I came because…” Her gaze drifted to the reporters standing near the news van. Marco glanced at them scornfully before shifting his attention back to her.
“I’m not with the press, Marco, I swear. I came because—”
“I know. I mean, why are you here? Why aren’t you with me?”
She blinked at him.
“Come on.” He took her hand and led her to a row of folding chairs beneath a huge pecan tree. Paloma’s casket sat on a carpet of fake grass, surrounded by wreaths and floral arrangements.
Before Feenie could protest, Marco steered her into the second row and seated her between himself and a stooped gray-haired woman who was weeping and holding a string of beads in her shaking hands. Marco’s mother, who sat diagonally in front of Feenie, held a similar string, but her hands were still.
A hush fell over the crowd as the priest began to pray. The pecan tree rustled in the breeze, blending with the sound of his voice. The sweet fragrance of lilies wafted over her. She felt oddly soothed by it all and wondered what Marco was feeling.
Her gaze settled on Maria. She sat inert, holding her beads, as the priest chanted over the coffin. Her cheeks were dry.
Feenie thought about the incredible lengths Marco had gone to to make this ritual possible. She Wondered if it had been worth it. It appeared to have brought his mother some peace, and she hoped it had brought him some, too.
She glanced over at him, sitting next to her all decked out in his crisp black suit. Her gaze landed on the white carnation pinned to his lapel. Everything about him looked so formal, so stilted, so un-Marco. But this ritual wasn’t about him, she realized. It was about Maria, and Kaitlin, and paying some long-overdue respects to a young woman who’d died a horrible death trying to do something good.
She’d been twenty-eight. Nearly Feenie’s age. And she’d been someone’s mother. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister.
Marco stirred beside her.
Suddenly, Feenie felt his grief. It had been wrapped in anger so longer she’d hardly glimpsed it. But it swept over her now, like the scent of the lilies.
I’m sorry, she wanted to say. I love you, Marco, and I’m so, so sorry. But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she squeezed his hand.
When the service ended, Marco stood up and hugged the old woman beside Feenie. Then he bent down. “You ready?” he whispered.
“For what?” Feenie whispered back.
“To meet everyone.”
Before she could answer, she was engulfed by a crowd of people. Marco introduced her around, each time calling her his “girlfriend.” The Juarez brothers passed before her in a blur of nods and firm handshakes. All three had Marco’s intense, dark eyes, and she could feel them scrutinizing her.
Finally, Marco pulled her away from the group. He tucked his arm around her waist and led her toward the street.
“They weren’t so bad, were they?”
She didn’t know what to say. Shock couldn’t begin to describe how she felt at the moment.
He stopped and touched a hand to her cheek. “You all right? You look pale.”
“I’m fine, I just…I feel like an intruder. Don’t you need to be with your mother right now?”
He kissed her forehead. “She’s okay. Trust me.” He cast a glance at Maria, who was surrounded by throngs of friends and relatives. She held her beads, as well as the cross that had lain on Paloma’s casket. Her face remained serene as people paid their respects. It seemed to Feenie she was comforting them, not vice-versa.
“She hasn’t been this okay in years,” he said.
Kaitlin peeked out from behind Marco’s legs.
“Uncle Marco?” Her voice was barely audible.
He scooped her up. She cupped her hand and whispered something in his ear. He answered her in Spanish, then shot Feenie a questioning look.
“You invited Kaitlin swimming?”
“Yes.” Feenie smiled before she realized what he was thinking. “Oh, but not today!”
Kaitlin’s face fell, and she gave Marco a doe-eyed look.
Feenie’s heart melted. “Any other day is fine, sweetie. I’m sure your grandmother—”
“Would think it was a great idea,” Marco said. “Let’s go.”
He plopped Kaitlin to the ground and took her hand. She smiled up at Feenie triumphantly. The little girl was smart and beautiful and clearly had Marco wrapped around her little finger.
Feenie laughed. “Okay. I guess I’m up for a swim.”
Marco patted his niece’s shoulder. “Go tell Grandma you’re coming with us.”
She trotted off. Marco pulled Feenie against him and hugged her tightly. “Thanks for coming,” he said into her hair.
“I wanted to.” She was glad she’d summoned the nerve to do it. She still felt guilty for taking him away from his family, but he didn’t seem too concerned about it. Maybe he needed a break. Or maybe Kaitlin did.
An hour later, they sat together on the edge of the pool, watching Kaitlin and her dog, Duke, frolic. Feenie had shed her pantyhose and heels. She dangled her feet in the water and sipped lemonade as the hum of cicadas filled the air. Marco had ditched his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and popped open a Corona. Kaitlin’s delighted shrieks echoed across the water. The little girl and her dog were in heaven.
“This is nice,” Marco said.
Duke paddled over and delivered a soggy tennis ball, which Marco promptly threw toward the deep end.
“He likes to swim!” Kaitlin said gleefully. “Just like me!”
“We’ll have to bring him over more often,” Marco said.
Feenie’s chest tightened. She hoped he would. Now that he was back, she never wanted him to leave again.
“You want to tell me what happened?” she asked softly.
He looked at her, and his smile faded. “Not really.”
She sipped her drink, trying not to look hurt.
“But I will.” He stroked a finger over her knuckles, not meeting her gaze. He cleared his throat. “When I finally tracked him down, it was pathetic. The guy was a wreck.”
“Where’d you find him?”
He looked away and kept his voice low, probably to prevent Kaitlin from hearing. “Some nothing town down in Chihuahua. An investigator I contacted in El Paso put me on the right track. Said he’d heard of this rich American down there who was retired from all sorts of serious shit. Ex-military. Said he’d lived in El Paso for a while. It fit, so I checked it out.”
Duke delivered the tennis ball again, and Marco threw it across the pool. Kaitlin squealed.
“Once I had a starting point, it didn’t take me long to find him; it was a small town, and everyone knew Who he was. I caught up to him in a bar. Think he practically lived there. Anyway, he was wasted. Totally. Didn’t even resist or anything. Followed me straight into the alley behind the bar.”
“Is that where y
ou broke his arm?”
Marco’s eyes narrowed.
“Hey, I’m not judging. I’m just asking,” she said. “I need to understand what happened.”
“That’s where I questioned him.”
There was a euphemism. “And then?”
He sighed. “And then I hauled him to the local jail. Paid them a few hundred bucks to lock him up on some trumped-up charge for a few days while I came back here and made a deal with the feds.”
“I thought you e-mailed them from Reynosa?”
He flashed a smile. “You believe everything you read in the paper?”
She ignored the jab. “What kind of deal?”
He paused. “Well, I had to give it some thought. I’d always counted on getting rid of him, so I hadn’t looked at all the possibilities. After I decided to change my plan, I wanted to make sure he didn’t get some kind of immunity in exchange for testimony.”
“And?”
Satisfaction flickered in his eyes. “And he won’t. No matter what he knows. Turns out the feds hate him as much as I do, and they’ve got plenty of evidence. He’ll never see the outside of a prison.”
Marco was in the clear. He could get on with his life. Their life. She stared down at her lap, afraid that if she looked at him, he’d read everything she was thinking. He’d read marriage vows, and baby strollers, and Christmas mornings with a house full of people. He’d run for the hills, she felt sure.
He picked up her hand. “So ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“Why I wimped out.”
She looked up at him. “You don’t need to be ashamed of it. I think what you did took a lot more courage.”
He rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t courage. It was selfishness, pure and simple.”
“How’s that?”
“I knew no matter how careful I was, there was always the chance I’d get caught. I know from being a cop, people always leave a trail. I knew the risk, but I’d never cared about it until now.” He was watching her intently, and she held her breath. “I looked at this guy, and I wanted to squeeze the trigger, but I kept thinking about you. About how I’d rather spend my life with you than rot in some jail cell.”
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