Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(10)

“What?” I asked her. “You helped put this Stirman guy away?”

Dimebox laughed nervously. “That ain’t the f**king half of it, Navarre. Not the f**king—”

Lalu whacked his fist against Dimebox’s skul , and Dimebox slumped on the couch.

Lalu grunted apologetical y. “Lady wanted no cussing.”

I said, “Erainya . . . ?”

She got up and stormed into the cousins’ bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

I turned to Jem, who was paying a lot of attention to the pattern in the couch fabric. I asked him if he stil had his mom’s cel phone.

I checked the readout, but the cal history didn’t help my confusion. I could make a dozen guesses who Erainya might cal in an emergency, if she were truly faced with an urgent dilemma.

Al my guesses were wrong.

The person she’d been so anxious to talk to when she stepped into the storm wasn’t her doctor boyfriend.

It wasn’t the police, or any of our regular helpers on the street.

She’d cal ed I-Tech Security, the direct line to the company president.

Her archrival.

A man she’d sworn never to cross paths with again, until one of them was dancing on the other’s grave.

Chapter 3

Special Agent Samuel Barrera spent breakfast trying to remember the name of the ax murderer.

The guy had tortured and kil ed six il egal immigrants on a ranch up around Castrovil e, left their body parts scattered in the woods like deer corn. What the hel was his name?

Sam had a feeling it would be important in the case he was working on. He’d talk to his trainee Pacabel when he got to the office. Pacabel would remember.

The morning was humid after last night’s downpour, just enough drizzle to keep everybody sour-faced, staring at the gray sky, thinking, Enough already.

Not even Alamo Street Market’s coffee and migas were enough to compensate.

Sam pul ed on his jacket over his sidearm.

He left a ten on the table, got annoyed when the waiter cal ed, “Hasta ma?ana, Sam.”

Like Sam knew the guy. Like they were old friends or something. What the hel was wrong with people these days?

Down South Alamo, yel ow sawhorses blocked the side streets. Asphalt had come apart in huge chunks and washed away. The sidewalk was buried in a shroud of mud.

Sam picked his way through the debris.

The last few years, people had started cal ing this area Southtown. Art studios had opened up in the old barrio houses, funky little restaurants and curio shops in the crumbling mercantile buildings. The changes didn’t bother Sam. He liked seeing life come back to his old neighborhood. But it did make him miss the past.

His family home at the corner of Cedar was fal ing apart. He’d owned it since his parents died, back in the seventies. He hadn’t lived there for years, but he always parked in front of it. Force of habit. The FOR SALE was up. The real estate agent cal ed him every day with glad tidings. They had their choice of offers.

For this old dump. Sam never suspected he’d grown up in a Victorian fixer-up dream. To him, it had just been la casa. Back then, nobody lived here but the Mexicans, because this was where they could afford to live.

He opened the door of his mustard-yel ow BMW.

The car was getting old. Like him. But Sam kept putting off a trade-in, irritated by the thought of unfamiliar controls, a different paint job. Too much to keep track of, when you got a new car.

He drove north to the field office on East Houston, stil thinking about that rancher whose name he couldn’t remember. He’d kept the six il egal immigrants as slaves, kil ed them slowly, one at a time. It had something to do with Sam’s present case.

When he got to the FBI suite on the second floor, he walked into the reception area and found some rookie fresh out of Quantico blocking his way to the inner offices. “Sir, can I help you?”

Sam scowled. There was a time when he would’ve chewed out this ass**le for standing in his way, but Sam didn’t feel up to it today. He felt a little off. Preoccupied. “I work here, son.”

Something disconnected in the kid’s eyes. It wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “You have identification?”

Sam patted his jacket, where the ID should be.

Hel . Was it in the car, maybe? On the coffee table?

Held up from work by a f**king detail.

A couple of agents came out from the interior offices and sized up Sam. One of them was an older guy— must’ve been nearing mandatory retirement. He had thinning silver hair, a big nose blazed with capil aries.

Sam knew him, couldn’t quite place his name.

“Must’ve left it at home,” Sam told the rookie. He felt the situation slipping away from him. “Cut me some slack.”

The agents exchanged looks. By some silent agreement, the silver-haired one stepped forward. “Hey, Sam.”

“Yeah?” Sam said.

“Let’s take a walk.”

“I don’t want a walk.”

The old guy put a hand on his shoulder and steered him back toward the entrance.

“You know me?” the old guy asked.

“Sure,” Sam said.

“Pacabel,” the guy said.

Immediately, the name slipped around him like a comfortable shoe.

“Joe Pacabel,” Sam said, confident again. “Sure, Joe. Let me get to work, wil you? Tel these jokers.”