Chapter 34
PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS EMILIO Cruz and Rick Del Rio were sitting in loungers on the deck overlooking the canal outside Del Rio’s house. It was a nice house and a nice view and a pretty sunset, but both men were wired as tight as guitar strings.
They were drinking beer and throwing bread to the ducks, and when Del Rio spoke at all, it was only to say some version of “Maybe this is the last time we’ll get to do this.”
And Cruz would say, “Don’t be crazy, Rick. You’re innocent.”
Del Rio had told Cruz that he hadn’t beaten Vicky Carmody, and Cruz believed his partner, but he was afraid for him. No one knew what a jury would do, and Del Rio didn’t look like a choirboy.
Cruz felt awful for Rick, but after sitting with his partner for hours, there was nothing left for him to say that he hadn’t already said.
Del Rio said: “This could be the last fresh air I breathe for ten years.”
Cruz, half joking, half exasperated, said, “Look. I’ll rent your house, Rick, okay? You’ll make money, and you’ll only be how old when you get out? Fifty-five?”
Del Rio looked at Cruz like he’d just said that he was having sex with Del Rio’s mother.
“What did you say, you son-of-a-bitch? You think this is funny?”
Del Rio leaped from the webbed aluminum chair, grabbed Cruz by the neck, squeezed his throat with both hands, then pushed the chair over and managed to straddle Cruz while pressing his thumbs into Cruz’s throat.
Del Rio was yelling, “You prick. You stupid prick. You want to do ten years? Huh? You couldn’t do ten days before you’d be crying like a girl.”
Cruz had a muscular neck along with the muscular rest of his body, and his arms were free. He gave Del Rio a shot to the jaw that sent Del Rio backward. It was enough to break the choke hold, but Del Rio wasn’t done. He scrambled to his feet, and as Cruz got up, Del Rio hurled himself at Cruz, who stiff-armed him.
Del Rio stumbled back, recovered his footing, threw a punch that connected with Cruz’s solar plexus. Cruz grunted, then lowered his head and ran at Del Rio; the force lifted Rick off his feet and sent him off the deck and into the canal.
Ducks flew up, squawking.
Del Rio sank, disappeared into the dark water, then bobbed up, sputtering.
Cruz shouted down at him, “Cooled off yet, Ricky? Are we done?”
“Shit,” Del Rio said. He reached for the rope ladder.
Cruz’s phone rang. He grabbed it out of his shirt pocket, flipped it open with his thumb, gave Del Rio a hand up to the deck.
The caller was Jack and he had an assignment for him: surveillance of those scumbag Sumaris, who had just checked into Shutters.
“I’m taking Del Rio with me,” Cruz said.
“Fine,” Jack said.
“He needs something to do. The waiting is killing him.”
“I said, ‘Fine.’”
Cruz stood back as Del Rio sluiced the water off his clothes with his hands. Cruz said, “I’m sorry, asshole. Your jaw is going to be purple tomorrow.”
Del Rio rubbed his jaw and said to Cruz, “So where are we going?”