Valdez takes his car keys and leaves the house, ignoring the huddle of reporters who have gathered at the end of his driveway. He heads west toward Magnolia, still smarting over an argument with Sandy. That woman has a sharp tongue and suspicious mind. One minute she’s blaming herself and the next she’s blaming him.
Things were less complicated when he was single. Back then he only had to worry about himself. Now he feels like there’s a chain around his neck and no matter how high he flies he will always be dragged back to earth by a casual tug of her wrist.
Victor Pilkington lives in a mansion overlooking Old Mill Lake. It’s a southern gothic-style structure with wraparound verandas on both floors, painted to make it look like a wedding cake. The old-world facade camouflages a state-of-the-art house with a poolroom, a private theater, and a gun safe that can be turned into a panic room or a bomb shelter.
A black woman answers the door. She has kept house for the Pilkingtons for twenty years, but rarely speaks unless spoken to first. Some domestics try to ingratiate themselves with a family, but this one drifts through the house like a ghost who doesn’t know what else to do.
She takes Valdez into the living room. Moments later, double doors open and his aunt Mina swishes into the room wearing a long nightgown. She’s his mother’s younger sister, early fifties, sculptured but softening at the edges. She throws her arms around him and sobs.
“I’m so sorry—I heard the news. It’s shocking, just plain shocking.” She doesn’t want to let him go. “How’s Sandy? Is she holding up? I was going to call her, but one doesn’t know what to say.” She runs her hands from his shoulders down his forearms. “Max is such a beautiful boy. I’m sure it’s going to be fine. The police are going to find him. They’re going to catch that terrible man.”
Valdez has to force his way out of her grip.
“Where is Victor?”
“In his office.” She glances at the stairs. “Neither of us could sleep. Go on up.”
Pilkington is watching a fight on pay TV. He leans forward in a big leather armchair, dipping his shoulders as though throwing punches. “Come on, hit him, you pussy!” He waves at Valdez to take a seat, not looking away from the screen. Then he adds, “Take a deep breath, Ryan. Don’t come in here angry.”
“What in fuck’s name are we going to do?”
Pilkington ignores him. “You know the problem with boxers today? They’re not willing to come forward and get hurt. Take this kid—he’s Puerto Rican. He wins this fight and he could get a crack at Pacquiao, but the only way he’s going to last two rounds against Manny is if he gets in close and takes some hurt.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you.”
Pilkington gets up. Stretches. Pours a coffee from a glass pot. Doesn’t offer. Although only fifteen years separate them, Pilkington is Valdez’s uncle on his mother’s side. Age hasn’t diminished the older man physically.
“How is that gorgeous wife of yours?” he asks.
“Christ! Are you listening to me?”
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Our son is missing and you’re acting like nothing is wrong.”
Pilkington ignores the statement. “You married a keeper there. Do you know how I know?”
Valdez doesn’t answer.
“Her smell.” Pilkington drops a lump of sugar in his coffee. Stirs. “Human beings aren’t so different from dogs. The first thing that comes to us is a sense of smell. It’s a primary instinct. Immediate. Powerful. Understand?”
No, thinks Valdez, who doesn’t understand. Pilkington could fuck a roast turkey for all he cares, so long as he keeps clear of Sandy…and helps find Max.
The fight has finished. The Puerto Rican kid lost. Pilkington turns off the TV and takes his coffee to the window where an antique telescope is aimed at the houses opposite.
“This is your fault.”
“What?”
“Palmer. You should have neutralized this issue when you had the chance.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried! Half the scum in that prison took money to kill him.”
“Your excuses count for shit, Ryan. What did you suppose was going to happen when Palmer got out? Did you think he was going to buy a sweater vest and take up golf?”
“I don’t think you should lecture me.”
“What?”
“I don’t like being lectured.”
“Is that right?”
“What did you do in the war, uncle? How many shots did you fire?”
Pilkington picks up a paperweight of a grizzly bear, weighing it in his hands. Valdez is still talking, venting his anger, nose to nose with the older man.
“I don’t like being lectured by someone who gets other people to do his dirty work and then complains about the stench.”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but doesn’t get the chance. Pilkington swings the paperweight underarm, sinking it into the younger man’s stomach, sending him to his knees. With surprising speed for a big man, he holds the bronze bear above Valdez’s head.
“For a man with no cows you talk a lot of bullshit, Ryan. You’d be nothing without me. Your job and your fancy house and your property portfolio that nobody knows about—that was my doing. I got Frank put in charge, and he’s covering your ass, but I’m not going to waste any more of my political capital on you. You should have silenced Palmer when you had the chance.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” says Valdez, still struggling for breath.
“Find him.”
“On my own?”
“No, Ryan, you have the combined resources of county, state, and federal agencies. I think that should be enough. And when you find him, I’m going to make sure the job gets done properly.”
“And my boy?”
“You should hope he doesn’t get in the way.”