Imelda twisted the top button on her dress. She backed up, looking for a place to sit down, but there wasn’t much—just the fishing boat, half submerged on its side in the slip, a few piles of ropes, a bait bucket. The water in the slip sloshed angrily. The doors had come loose. One banged back and forth against the other, showing snapshots of the gray sea outside.
Imelda said, “Señor, we didn’t—”
“Imelda was upset,” Jose interrupted. “I told her I would move our things.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “Since you knew the house would blow up.”
Jose’s expression was as calm as a career gambler’s. “Señor?”
“You did have the key to the lighthouse. You just didn’t want me getting in there and finding Alex.”
He shook his head. “Why would I do that?”
“Maybe because Imelda was upset. Killing Jesse Longoria to protect your identity was one thing. Killing Chris Stowall, even. You never trusted him. But Alex was a friend. He helped you, gave you refuge. I don’t think Imelda wanted him killed. So you stashed him away in the lighthouse instead, doped up and drunk, until you took care of the rest of us.”
Imelda was watching her husband intently, as if she expected him to do something amazing—combust into flames or start speaking in tongues.
“Mr. Huff was kind to us,” Jose said.
“Very kind,” I agreed. “And trusting. He gave you freedom to do whatever you wanted. You set up shop right under his nose, in room 102. You were running the hotel, the two of you, until Chris Stowall came on board. After the Brazos hit went wrong, Chris found that email and realized Calavera was at the hotel, but he thought it was Alex. He saw it as a moneymaking opportunity and got Longoria and Benjamin Lindy involved. You realized what Longoria was here for right away. You confronted him and killed him. Then you gave Chris Stowall the same treatment. Alex didn’t know what was going on. He only began to suspect when he found the bomb room, but even then he wasn’t sure who to blame. I imagine you directed his suspicions toward Chris Stowall.”
“Mr. Huff told you all this?”
“No. He’s dead.”
Imelda cupped her hands to her face.
“He tried to take Benjamin Lindy’s gun away rather than throw the blame on you,” I said. “He died without giving you away. He was still willing to believe you were innocent.”
“Don’t say any more.” Jose’s voice was tight. “Don’t stir up more trouble.”
“You were an assassin in Mexico. You worked for the cartels down there. You knew explosives.”
He didn’t answer.
“Then your family became a target,” I said. “Your children were killed, but it wasn’t random violence. They died because someone was getting back at you. You left Nuevo Laredo and you found your way here. Maybe you tried to go straight, but you had lots of anger. You had skills that were going to waste. And you had Alex, who trusted you implicitly and had a background similar enough to yours—working with explosives. A perfect fall guy, should you need one. It wasn’t long before you were rebuilding yourself a new career as Calavera.”
Imelda started talking to him in rapid Spanish. I could hardly follow. She said she’d told him a thousand times. He had taken things too far. He should never have gone back to his old work.
He raised his hand and she fell silent instantly. I got the feeling she’d had a lot of practice at this over the years. She had learned to hold back, to fear her husband when he raised his hand like that.
Jose’s face, which I’d thought of as made for smiling, now had the sharpness of a knife.
“I did what I needed to,” he said. “For Imelda and for me.”
“Because of money? You took the drug payoff away from the college kids—easy to do when you’ve got the keys to their rooms. I imagine you’ve got a lot more stashed away. Is Chris Stowall’s twenty grand in one of those boxes?”
“Even before that, we had enough to go anywhere.”
“Then why didn’t you leave?”
He glanced at his wife. “Leaving anywhere…is difficult.”
“Huff was your family. This place was all you had. You messed that up when you murdered Peter Brazos’s family.”
“An accident.”
“But you didn’t contact the Marshals Service yourself. You’ve got no remorse.”
“No.”
“Alex, then,” I guessed. “The Brazos killings were more than he could take. He contacted the Marshals Service, pretending to be Calavera. He was going to turn you in. Or maybe you made him think Chris was the killer.”
“No,” Jose said. “You do not understand. It was not Mr. Huff. The person who wished to turn me in was my wife.”
“You should have gone along,” Imelda said softly.
“For what?” he asked. “You would lose me, too? Is that what you want?”
“No, mi amor. I do not want to lose you.”
“You already have, Imelda,” I told her. “Your husband kills people. It’s how he deals with his anger, keeps it in check. That’s why he chooses explosives instead of guns. The timer, the sense of control, the complete destruction of someone’s household—that has a lot of appeal to you, doesn’t it, Jose?”
His eyes were steely, but I doubted I could make him lose his cool. Jose was not the type. He wanted to be the master, the timer. He would kill in his own way.
“People die,” Jose said. “My children died before my eyes. Why should other lives matter to me? Why should I not choose the time and the way? I’m good at it.”
“But you made mistakes.”
He shrugged. “That’s over now. I will not make any deals. I will not apologize.”
“Jose,” Imelda said.