Mission Canyon Read Online Free PDF Page A

when I hit the right adjective.’’
    She held up her hands. ‘‘I get your point.’’ She tilted her head back. ‘‘Let’s blow this gig. Want to? Get a beer, go dancing, play poker. I’m sick of being a bitch.’’
    I nearly laughed. We’d been friends for years, and her impulsiveness always amused me.
    ‘‘Kid, I never tire of watching you spin on that dime. But not tonight.’’
    She sighed. ‘‘No, I guess not.’’ She started walking backward toward the museum. ‘‘So, are the rumors true?’’
    ‘‘Lies. A vast conspiracy of lies.’’
    ‘‘There’s a story going around you’re getting married.’’
    ‘‘I heard that too,’’ I said.
    Her mouth curled up. ‘‘He’s a lucky guy.’’
    ‘‘Damn straight he is.’’
    She waved, and I walked away. Jesse was waiting by his car, watching traffic cruise by. He had a predatory look in his eyes.
    I touched the back of his neck. ‘‘Want to come home with me?’’
    He shook his head. ‘‘I have to tell Adam.’’
    His tone of voice told me he’d rather eat glass.
    I said, ‘‘Do you want backup?’’
    ‘‘Yeah. I’ll sing melody; you take the harmony. We’ll do the whole lousy song.’’ He unlocked the car. ‘‘The ‘Your Brother’s Dead and His Killer’s Back’ blues.’’
    ‘‘Three years and three weeks. Brand just missed the anniversary of the accident.’’
    Adam Sandoval leaned against a windowsill, staring out. He lived on the Mesa, a hillside neighborhood overlooking the ocean. Sunset flickered red on the water.
    ‘‘He isn’t here to lay a wreath. What brought him back?’’
    ‘‘Money,’’ I said.
    He was preternaturally still. His quiet, I knew, should not be mistaken for tranquillity.
    ‘‘He has money. It’s more than that,’’ he said.
    A breeze blew through the window, billowing his white linen shirt. He was barefoot, and his khakis hung loosely on him. The only item that didn’t look careless was the crucifix. It hung directly over his heart, as though placed with an awareness of force and balance worthy of a physicist, which he was.
    ‘‘The arrogant bastard. Showing up at a public event as if nothing’s wrong, as if three years on some beach washed the stink off his guilt.’’
    He turned from the window. He had a rugged face. His eyes brimmed with melancholy light, a sorrow that faded but never disappeared, even when he smiled. He wasn’t smiling now.
    ‘‘This is sickening,’’ he said.
    Jesse said, ‘‘No. Trying to contact people from Mako, out in public—that will get him caught. This is excellent.’’
    ‘‘If you believe that, why do you look like you’ve been punched in the face?’’
    Jesse sighed.
    I said, ‘‘Because he’s been trash-talking with Kenny Rudenski.’’
    Adam looked surprised. ‘‘That’s going straight for the jugular.’’
    ‘‘Of course,’’ I said. ‘‘His business card reads, ‘One-eight -hundred-RIDE-THEIR-ASS.’ ’’
    Adam gave him a sardonic smile. ‘‘Did he look you in the eye?’’
    ‘‘He can’t,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘He has a congenital impediment. ’’
    Adam pushed off from the windowsill and shrugged across the room. The house was furnished with one sofa, two computers, and bookshelves cluttered with Ludlum, Tony Hillerman, Aquinas, and the collected lectures of Richard Feynman. The whole place smelled like chile verde. Adam was a postdoc at the university, and it showed.
    Jesse said, ‘‘Let Brand be arrogant. It doesn’t matter, because nobody in town’s going to get close enough to poke him with a stick. That’s why he was standing outside the museum like a beggar.’’
    ‘‘Or like a stalker,’’ Adam said. ‘‘He wants something, and he wants it bad.’’
    Standing by the bookshelf, he gazed at an eight-by-ten photo in a pewter frame. His face was wistful.
    It pictured him, Isaac, and Jesse—the unholy trinity, they called themselves. It was taken at the NCAA national swimming