Southtown tn-5

by Rick Riordan

  She would only have a millisecond for decisions. If he was alone, she would call his name, watch him turn so she wouldn’t have to shoot him in the back. She would put a bullet in the center of his chest.

  She crept to the edge of the bedroom wall.

  Her front door creaked. The bastard was opening it.

  One. She exhaled. Two…

  She swung around the corner, crouching into firing position as her visitor called into the house, “Erainya?”

  His voice saved his life.

  J.P.’s back was to her. Her Colt was leveled at the stretch of white broadcloth between his shoulder blades.

  She caught her breath.

  He sensed her, turned in time to see the gun drop to her knee.

  He held up his hands, one of which held a bouquet of snapdragons. “May I request a last meal with a beautiful woman?”

  She was trembling.

  She had almost killed the only man she would never consider killing.

  She was furious with him. What the hell was he doing here?

  She wanted to drive him off, tell him to go the hell away. Right now she was as dangerous as a downed power line. Murder danced in her nervous system.

  J.P. smiled.

  How could he look at her like that?

  Here she was with her bare wet feet, her grungy work clothes, her bloodshot eyes and her runny nose, ambushing him with a goddamn. 45-and he was looking at her like she was the best thing he’d ever seen.

  “I could’ve killed you,” she said.

  “I was thinking Italian.”

  She rose, took a shaky breath, and let the gun fall uselessly to her side. “If the last meal is that good, honey, I suppose I’ve got to share it.”

  According to the radio, half the West Side was underwater. Woodlawn Lake had overflowed, manhole covers burst open, storm drains exploded into geysers. Hundreds of residents were stranded on rooftops. Four teenagers had disappeared, sucked into the current while trying to body-surf a drainage ditch.

  Even the affluent North Side had not been spared. Right down the street from J.P.’s chosen restaurant, at the corner of Basse, an elderly couple’s Cadillac had turned into an underwater coffin. Erainya could see the police lights flickering through the treetops.

  But you could tell none of that from the crowd at Paesano’s. The parking lot gleamed with eighty-thousand-dollar cars. Inside, the elite of San Antonio packed the dining room, laughing and talking without concern, the air infused with oregano and expensive cologne.

  J.P. made everyone’s face light up as he walked through the room.

  “Dr. Sanchez!”

  Surgeons, trial lawyers, politicians rose from their tables to shake his hand. J.P. introduced Erainya, though it was clear none of them cared about her. J.P.’s arm around her waist, his complete deference toward her, seemed to irritate his acquaintances.

  J.P. politely cut short each conversation, declining their offers for a drink.

  “You must excuse me,” he told them. “When I am with Miss Manos, my time becomes very valuable.”

  Erainya loved him. She loved the way his friends’ mouths hung open, the way their wives stared after her as they wrung their diamond bracelets.

  J.P. had managed to reserve the restaurant’s best table-a corner spot with windows overlooking the golf course and, across Basse, the man-made canyon that had once been the Alamo Cement Quarry. She could just make out J.P.’s house, there on the far rim of the canyon, its windows bright with buttery light.

  Erainya wondered if this was a subtle invitation, eating dinner within sight of his bedroom. But no-she would think that way. J.P. wouldn’t.

  Last night he had comforted her so patiently, asked no questions, expected nothing in return. He had completely understood when she wanted to sleep next to Jem, so they ended up camping out in his living room, all three of them-down sleeping bags on his plush carpet, bowls of popcorn, flashlights, Yu-Gi-Oh! DVDs instead of ghost stories. All night, Erainya lay awake, listening to the easy breathing of her child and her lover, and pondering how she would kill Will Stirman.

  J.P. ordered dinner-shrimp Paesano, Parmesan salad, fettuccine Alfredo. He waved aside the wine list and ordered a magnum of ’97 Brunello di Montalcino, not making a big deal out of it, but Erainya knew the vintage would cost more than she earned in a week. She’d made a point of learning about wine since she’d started dating J.P.

  The bottle arrived. He declined a taste test, sent away the waiter, and poured Erainya a generous glass as if it were Kool-Aid or Strawberry Ripple. “So did you get Jem settled?”

  “I suppose. He loves this lady… Maia Lee.”

  “Tres’ girlfriend.”

  “Yeah.”

  J.P. placed his hand on hers. “If I had to pick one eight-year-old to watch my back in a fight, I’d pick Jem. He’ll be fine.”

  She managed a smile. A small knot of worry was twisting in her throat. Jem had never spent the night away from her-at least not since he was very small, before she’d taken permanent custody of him. Baby-sitters, sleepovers… she couldn’t deal with them. She’d never been able to shake the fear that he would disappear somehow, leave her life as suddenly as he’d entered it.

  J.P. seemed to understand how she felt. He knew what a serious emergency it would take for her to send Jem out of town. But still he had asked no questions. He just made himself available, in case she needed him.

  She realized that was why he’d shown up on her doorstep tonight, despite her refusal. He knew she shouldn’t be alone.

  “Hey,” he said gently. “I thought you liked shrimp.”

  She looked down. Appetizers had appeared and she hadn’t even noticed.

  “I haven’t been fair to you,” she said. “I’ve haven’t explained anything.”

  “We agreed not to talk about our jobs. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about the sinuses I cleared today.”

  “Sinuses won’t kill you.”

  “I don’t know. There was this big nasty one-”

  “I’m serious, J.P.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything,” he said. “I trust you. If you don’t tell me, you have a good reason.”

  She wanted to cry. She knew so much about him. Once she’d realized she might actually love this man, she’d run a complete background check. She knew all about his school days, his career, his wife, who had died in childbirth twenty years ago and whose name he had never so much as mentioned. J.P. had never remarried. He’d devoted his life to raising his daughter, who had just recently graduated from college. Except for the one horrendous tragedy of his wife’s death, the man had no secrets, no enemies, no skeletons in the closet.

  Erainya’s closet, on the other hand, was loaded. There was so much she couldn’t tell him.

  It was easier to concentrate on the wine and the shrimp Paesano.

  The sky darkened. Traffic on Basse subsided to an occasional streak of headlights, the rattlesnake sizzle of tires on wet asphalt.

  J.P. twirled his fork in the fettuccine. “Have you told Tres our plans?”

  Their plans.

  “I haven’t said anything,” she admitted. “Not yet.”

  He kept his attention carefully focused on achieving the perfect bite-sized forkful of pasta.

  “I’ll tell him soon,” she said.

  “Only if it’s still what you want.”

  He tried to sound casual, but she heard the fragility in his voice. He had opened himself up for emotional hurt, for the first time since his wife’s death. The fact that Erainya had so much power over him scared her.

  They had agreed to get married in the fall. She would quit working, close the agency. He would provide for her and Jem. He had more money than they would ever need.

  Did she really want this?

  She only had to look at J.P. to know the answer was yes. No one had ever loved her so much. And the sex… well, she’d almost consigned herself to a life of celibacy until J.P. came along. The sex was fa
ntastic.

  At first, she had resisted the idea of quitting work. She told herself she needed the job. It was part of her identity. But she believed that less and less.

  For a few years after taking over the agency, she’d felt good about the work. She’d been exorcising Fred’s spirit, becoming a PI in her own right to prove that she could. But business soon began to go sour, deteriorating into a petty grudge match between her and Barrera.

  Despite her way with people, her contacts, her face-to-face talents, she wasn’t much of a businesswoman. She hated the Internet, computers, information brokers. She liked the human part of the PI business, and that part was disappearing. She was rapidly becoming a dinosaur.

  She’d been contemplating quitting, in fact, the day a young man named Tres Navarre had walked into her office, looking for work. Something about him had reinvigorated her-made her want to teach him the trade. He had made the work interesting again, fresh, good. But now… she wanted an escape. She wanted to believe she could slip out from under Fred Barrow’s legacy, with Jem safely in her arms, and start a new life at age fifty-one.

  Almost as soon as she made that wish, Will Stirman had reappeared in her life.

  J.P. pushed his plate aside, took a long drink of wine. “All right. I lied.”

  Erainya realized she’d been silent too long. “What?”

  “I do want to know. Let me help. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She wanted to. Her anger at Stirman had faded to a dull ache. Her confidence was starting to slip. The enormous Colt in her purse seemed ridiculous in this elegant restaurant, with the affluent people and the candlelight, the shrimp and fettuccine and wine.

  “Not here,” she said.

  “Will you come back to the house?”

  The house. As if there were only one-with the bright yellow lights across the canyon, shining through the rain.

  Ten years ago, this quarry had been the poorest neighborhood in San Antonio. Workers’ shacks lined dusty roads and dump trucks rumbled back and forth, hauling limestone to the rail depot. Now the quarry was a golf course, a clubhouse, a string of fashionable mansions around the canyon rim. Even the old factory with its smokestacks had been transformed into an upscale shopping center.

  The very location of J.P.’s house seemed to suggest that anything was possible.

  She decided she would tell him everything. She would postpone her hunt, at least until the morning. And if the worst happened, if Stirman got to her first, she would trust this man-a man she had known for such a short time-to do what was necessary to protect Jem.

  “Back to our house,” she said. “That would be wonderful.”

  His smile was the best reward, the only reward, she’d had for days.

  A battered white Chevrolet was blocking the alley behind the restaurant. It idled at a crazy angle, headlights illuminating the dumpsters, fender almost kissing J.P.’s Lexus.

  The man sitting on the hood was a Latino in his late twenties-lean and muscular, military haircut, beige shorts and a green camp shirt.

  Nice legs, Erainya thought absently.

  Two glasses of ’97 Brunello had taken the edge off her apprehension. It was hard to think about danger when J.P.’s arm was around her.

  The young man looked at them sheepishly. It didn’t take Erainya long to see why. There was a deep gash in J.P.’s car door. The sideview mirror had been sheared off.

  Erainya had warned J.P. not to park back here. The lane was too narrow, squeezed between the restaurant and the golf course fence, and it was completely shielded from sight, perfect for car thieves. But the front lot had been full, the alley was convenient, and J.P. cared as little about parking conventions as he did wine prices.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the young man said. “I was trying to get around the dumpster.”

  He turned up his palms, revealing a crucifix tattoo on his inner arm.

  The guy obviously wasn’t a Paesano’s customer. Probably an off-duty waiter, worried he’d get fired for bashing the Lexus.

  J.P. looked pained. He knelt down to examine the damage. “Well, it’s fixable, anyway.”

  “Really sorry,” the man said again. “Hope we can solve this without insurance.”

  “I doubt you want to do that,” J.P. said. “Probably looking at a few thousand dollars.”

  Erainya decided the young man wasn’t a waiter. Something about his tattoo was wrong, and the way he held himself-not really sheepish, after all. He was coiled like a spring, as if he were used to watching his back. He was staring at her, almost like he was trying to warn her of something.

  “You’ll have to talk to my boss,” the young man said.

  He slid off the hood of the Chevrolet and stepped aside.

  Erainya realized, too late, what was wrong about him. He moved like a convict.

  The Chevrolet’s back door opened.

  The man who stepped out was tall, with a triangle of black hair, dark glasses, an expensive leather jacket and pale, pale skin.

  He said, “Change of plans, Mrs. Barrow.”

  The name froze her.

  She should have reached for her Colt, but her hand wouldn’t obey. She watched the glint of the man’s pistol as it emerged from his leather jacket.

  J.P. said, “No.”

  Erainya tried to warn him, to stop him, but he stepped in front of her, shielding her. The gun fired.

  The bullet ripped through the white broadcloth above his belt. Erainya wanted to scream. She wanted to move. But the Colt in her purse might as well have been at home.

  J.P. crumpled to his knees.

  And Will Stirman turned, pointing his gun at the center of her chest.

  14

  The last person I wanted to find in the Brooke Army Medical Center waiting area was a homicide detective.

  Ana DeLeon was leaning against the reception desk, talking to a couple of uniforms and another plainclothes detective.

  She might’ve been mistaken for a young professional-a hospital administrator being hit on by the three male cops-unless you noticed the sergeant’s badge clipped to her belt, or the shoulder holster under her blue silk blazer. Or unless you knew, like every guy in SAPD, that the last cop who tried to hit on Ana DeLeon pulled desk duty for a month and still had trouble sitting down without pain.

  She saw me approaching, told her colleagues something on the order of: Here comes Navarre. Get lost or I’ll make you talk to him.

  They got lost.

  “I stayed at the office until seven last night,” she told me. “I keep wondering-if you’d showed, would we be here now?”

  “What’s the word?”

  “No change in condition. And no leads on the shooter, unless you’re bringing me something.”

  I used to have a martial arts instructor who could press his hand very softly on the center of my chest, and no amount of effort could dislodge him. I’d swear he was barely making contact, but after thirty seconds, his touch left a bruise. DeLeon’s eyes were like that.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I told her.

  “No visiting hours for ICU.”

  “The hell with visiting hours.”

  She studied my face. “I suppose I’ll chaperone, in case you need arresting.”

  After a few conversations with nurses and some badge-waving from DeLeon, we were admitted to the gunshot ward.

  J. P. Sanchez lay cocooned in linen and bandages, hooked up to so many tubes and monitors the machines seemed to be feeding off him rather than keeping him alive. His eyes were bruised, his skin as gray as his hair.

  “They’re trying to stabilize him,” DeLeon told me. “They’ll do another round of surgery if he makes it through the night.”

  “Did he talk at all?”

  “Tres, he flat-lined in the ambulance. He wasn’t in a talkative mood.”

  I touched the guardrail of his bed. Even through the hospital odors, I could smell his cologne.

  I imagined his wry smile. Give me a chance, Tres.

&
nbsp; “Come on.” DeLeon’s hand gripped my shoulder. “Buy me coffee.”

  She steered me toward the elevator.

  In the hospital food court, I was vaguely aware of the other plainclothes detective-an Anglo guy built like a linebacker-falling in behind us. He kept his distance, out of earshot.

  I bought two tall coffees. DeLeon and I took a corner booth. I drank while DeLeon emptied sugar packets into her cup, three at a time.

  “That’ll kill you,” I told her.

  “I’ve been promised faster deaths.” She stirred, sipped without even making a face. “So where is Stirman?”

  “Ask your Fugitive Task Force.”

  “Yesterday, you said he was in town.”

  I stared into my coffee.

  My day had begun with Folgers and goat’s milk, prepared by a blind woman on a ranch. Here it was evening, and I felt like I was still drinking from the same cup, no wiser than I had been before.

  Erainya was missing. An innocent man was upstairs dying. Sam Barrera was cracking under stress. And I’d been asked to tell the police nothing.

  “Around five this evening,” DeLeon said, “patrol got a call. One of Erainya’s neighbors reported seeing her in her front yard with a gun. She was pointing it at Dr. Sanchez. Then Sanchez calmed her down. They left together before patrol could get there. Two hours later, we found Sanchez bleeding to death behind Paesano’s. Erainya was missing. One possibility: She shot her boyfriend and fled.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “It’s also Major Cooper’s working theory.” She nodded toward the linebacker, who sat two tables away, feigning interest in the bluebonnet paintings.

  “Major,” I said. “That’s a Department of Criminal Justice rank.”

  “Fugitive Task Force,” she said. “I asked him to come with me. Just in case you had something to say. For the record, Major Cooper does not believe Stirman would stay in San Antonio.”

  “He wants a few more people to die?”

  “He needs convincing.”

  I tried to look her in the eyes, but it was damn uncomfortable.