Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)

Southtown (Tres Navarre #5) Page 30

I stared at the machine.

How Sam Barrera had gotten to a warehouse on the East Side when his BMW was sitting in my driveway, I didn’t know. Perhaps he was imagining the whole thing from his armchair at home. But I had a sneaking suspicion the old bastard was truly mobile, and if Sam was knocking around the East Side looking for Stirman, he’d find trouble fast.

I grabbed my car keys.

The second message played.

This one had been left at 7:43 P.M., a few minutes before I’d walked in.

“Fred.” Sam’s voice again, tighter this time. “Where the hel are you? Stirman just cal ed. I didn’t . . . um, I tried to write it al down but I don’t have my notebook. He’s moved up the meeting time. He didn’t sound good. Something’s wrong. He wants us to bring the money to Jones and Avenue B right now. That’s the museum, right? Shit, did we talk about money? Nothing’s happening at this Carrizo Ice place, but I stil think she’s in there. I mean, the woman. You know. I’d better get over to the rendezvous point and stal him. If you don’t get this— I’l think of something. I think I can take him down. He sounded like he might be hurt. I hate damn answering machines.”

The line went dead.

“Jem,” I cal ed.

He came out of the bathroom. “You found a bag?”

“Champ, we don’t have time—”

Red lights flashed against my windowpanes. A police car had pul ed into the driveway, blocking my truck and Barrera’s BMW. Ana DeLeon and her friend from the Fugitive Task Force, Major Cooper, got out of the back. Two uniforms got out of the front. They walked toward my porch looking like Death’s Prize Patrol.

“On second thought,” I told Jem, “how about you play with Robert Johnson in the backyard for a little while?”

My hand trembled as it hovered over the answering machine. I passed up erase, punched rewind.

A knock at the door. Ana DeLeon was two steps inside my living room before she asked, “May we come in?”

Behind her, the male cops stared at me. I could sense DeLeon was keeping them on a short tether. They would’ve liked nothing better than to tear me apart.

“Always glad to see friends,” I said.

DeLeon formal y introduced Major Cooper, the Task Force guy. Up close, I saw I was right about the linebacker thing. He had the cross-eyed squint of a former player, as if he’d spent too many years staring through a face plate. He wore a brown blazer with jeans and a yel ow and blue tie that looked like Van Gogh had thrown up on it.

DeLeon said, “We have a problem.”

I nodded. “You’re right. He’s a fashion disaster. But I don’t think my clothes wil fit him.”

DeLeon managed to contain her mirth. “Twenty minutes ago, Wil Stirman robbed a mom-and-pop on South Presa. The store owner stabbed him in the shoulder; Stirman shot the old guy dead. We blocked off the entire area, but Stirman stil got away. Now we’ve got a wounded armed fugitive roaming the South Side.”

“Straight down Broadway,” I advised. “When you hit downtown, keep going.”

“This is bul shit,” Cooper said. “Cuff him.”

DeLeon held up her hand. The uniforms stayed where they were.

“Tres, no games,” she said. “The media is running with the story. Every cop in Bexar County who’s not already on flood duty has been cal ed up. We need to know what you know.”

In the backyard, Jem was kicking his soccer bal at the patio table. He was trying to dislodge Robert Johnson, who was playing goalie. The score was zero–zero.

“You said it yourself,” DeLeon reminded me. “If Stirman is forced to run, he won’t bother keeping a hostage alive. We may have minutes rather than hours.”

I glanced at Cooper. His face betrayed no surprise. He’d been ful y briefed on Erainya.

I tried not to be angry. I tried not to feel like DeLeon had betrayed me by showing up unannounced with a bunch of bruisers. It wasn’t her fault. She was doing her job, trying to help. Ralph had told me I should trust her, let her handle it. Maybe that’s what decided me.

“Stirman cal ed last night,” I said. “He thinks Barrow and Barrera stole fourteen mil ion dol ars from him.

He demanded we return it.”

No one looked surprised about the amount of cash.

DeLeon said, “When and where?”

“Tonight. He’s supposed to cal after midnight and specify a drop.”

“You found the money?”

“No.”

DeLeon arched an eyebrow.

“Search the house,” I offered.

DeLeon must’ve never heard of a bluff. She glanced at the uniforms. “Gentlemen?”

They tore up my apartment with gusto.

“While they’re at it,” she said, “mind if I search you for a weapon?”

Motherhood hadn’t made her any gentler when it came to frisks.

Once she satisfied herself I wasn’t carrying, and the cops found nothing more incriminating than my tai chi sword above the toilet and a cup ful of HEB Buddy Buck coupons, DeLeon and Cooper exchanged looks.

“We’l tap the line,” Cooper said. “Wait for the cal .”

“No,” DeLeon and I chorused.

I’m not sure who was more embarrassed by our agreement.

“Stirman’s wounded,” DeLeon said. “If he’s listening to the news, he knows we’re on to him. He’s not going to keep a schedule. He’l cut his losses and run.”

“We’ve got every highway under surveil ance,” Cooper said. “We’l shut down the fucking city. He’s not going anywhere.”

“Right,” I said. “You’re just toying with him now.”

Cooper took a step toward me.

DeLeon interposed. “Major.”

“You vouched for this son-of-a-bitch,” Cooper reminded her. “He knew Stirman was in town, maybe for days. If he’d given us a few goddamned details—”

“Major,” DeLeon cut in, “as I explained at the hospital yesterday, Tres’ boss may be in danger—”

“Hel with that. I should throw his ass in jail for aiding and abetting.”

“You see that boy outside?” DeLeon asked. “His mother is the one Stirman took. Tres is trying to make sure she doesn’t die.”

“I don’t . . .” Cooper stopped himself. His temples turned purple with the effort.

“You don’t care,” I supplied, “about anything except catching Stirman.”

“Tres,” DeLeon said, “if we knew where to look right now, it would be the San Antonio SWAT team who deployed. They’re the only hostage force ready. I know them. They would do things right.”

“If you knew where to look.”

Her eyes held mine. “Stirman stil wants his money. He might’ve cal ed you after the robbery went bad, moved up the meeting time.”

I thought about Sam Barrera, who would be arriving at Jones and Avenue B about now. Minutes rather than hours.

Cooper grumbled, “This asshole is holding back.”

“I know that, goddamn it!” DeLeon snapped. She turned her attention back to me, tried to moderate her tone. “Wel ?”

I walked to the answering machine.

“I got home maybe two minutes before you walked in,” I said. “This was waiting for me.”

I pressed play.

As soon as Barrera’s voice mentioned an address, Cooper whipped out his cel phone, but DeLeon said, “Wait.”

She listened until I punched stop, then studied me uneasily. “Why did he cal you Fred?”

“I’m the guy who works with Erainya. Sam’s got Fred Barrow on the brain. You’ve never cal ed somebody the wrong name when you were under stress?”

She thought about that. “He told you to cal the field office. You’ve been talking with the FBI?”

“He means I-Tech, his agency. Look, I gave you what you want. Now get moving, or let me do it.”

“Let’s go,” Cooper told the uniforms.

DeLeon hesitated. “You will stay here, Tres. You understand that?”

“I’m taking care of Jem. I have no weapon and no money to bargain with. Does it look like I’m charging into battle?”

DeLeon glanced toward the patio, where Jem was teaching Robert Johnson how to block corner shots.

“Sergeant,” Cooper growled. “Now, or I leave without you.”

Her expression was stil troubled. She sensed something amiss. She said, “I’l get her back alive, Tres. I swear.”

Their patrol car disappeared down Queen Anne Street.

I opened the patio door and told Jem to bring the cat inside.

“Time to go?” he asked, setting a relieved Robert Johnson down by his food dish.

“Time,” I agreed. “You’ve got to be brave, champ. Can you do that for me?”

He nodded. “We’l get my mom back. He can’t take us both on.”

I tried to smile, despite the fact that I was betting everything—including our lives—on a guess.

I pressed play on the answering machine, let the tape continue from where I’d stopped it. I listened again to Sam Barrera’s second message—the one Ana DeLeon hadn’t heard.

Chapter 21

Erainya dreamed of J.P.

He stood over her, tel ing her not to worry—he’d have the ropes off in a moment. She could smel his cologne. She was grateful for the familiar silver stubble on his cheeks, the strong line of his jaw against the broadcloth col ar. His hands worked deftly at the knots.

But J.P. had been murdered. She had seen him fal in the al ey behind Paesano’s.

The man over her became Fred Barrow. He tugged at the ropes, clumsy and insistent, a gun in one hand, which made it impossible for him to get anywhere.

“Goddamn it, Irene.” He smel ed of cigars and bourbon. His bel y pressed against her ribs, crushing her as it had the night she’d kil ed him. “Wake up. Come on.”

Son-of-a-bitch.

She brought up her legs and kneecapped him in the face, sending him sprawling.

Erainya blinked, and came ful y awake.

She was lying on a dirty pile of blankets, her arms bound behind her, her dress soaked with sweat. The man she’d just kneed in the head was the young fugitive—Pablo.

He got up, cursing, went to the table and exchanged his gun for a knife.

“Hold stil ,” he growled, “or I’l cut your hands off.”

Erainya felt the cold metal blade slip between her wrists. Pablo tugged, and the ropes snapped. She sat up, tried to move her arms. She felt like someone had poured boiling water into her veins.

Pablo stepped back, retrieved his gun. “Do the rest yourself.”

Her fingers were numb. She managed to peel back the duct tape from her mouth.

“Get up.” Pablo stood by the plywood-barricaded window, peeking out a sliver of sunset at something below. “We don’t have much time.”

She fumbled with the knots that bound her ankles. She wanted to feel hopeful about being untied, but she didn’t like the urgency in Pablo’s voice. He had that wild, angry look in his eyes he got every time Wil Stirman yel ed at him.