Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(25)

“Sanchez,” I said. “That’s your last name, right? Dr. Sanchez?”

He raised his eyebrows. “So you think you might try to remember it, after al ?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I suppose a glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.”

He was about to pour when we heard the gunshot from the study.

Chapter 9

Even before the crazy woman picked up the gun, Sam Barrera wasn’t having a good day.

He’d spent the last twenty-four hours making careful notes from his case files, trying to understand what he’d gotten himself into eight years ago. Unfortunately, the information he needed most wasn’t in the files.

He wouldn’t have committed incriminating evidence to writing.

After breakfast, his real estate agent cal ed. She had a quarter-mil ion-dol ar offer for the Southtown house, but she needed an answer by Friday. He told her he’d have to think about it.

A few minutes later, his doctor cal ed—the goddamn neurologist who’d adopted him.

“Sam, did you visit?” he wanted to know.

“Yeah, I visited.”

“And?”

What was Sam supposed to say? The place had scared him to death.

“It’s your best chance,” the doctor assured him. “It real y is. But openings don’t happen often. We have to jump on this right away. I need an answer soon.”

Again, Sam said he had to think about it.

He hung up and drew a picture of the neurologist with devil horns. By the time he’d finished drawing it, he’d forgotten who it was supposed to be.

Then, as if al that wasn’t enough, a courier delivered the videotape.

Sam had watched the video four times, even though it was one of the most horrible things he’d ever seen.

He hoped the images would keep his memory from fading, keep his sense of urgency alive.

When he’d cal ed Erainya Manos, he asked for a morning meeting. But she had insisted he come at noon, when her house would be empty.

Words were slippery for Barrera at noon. So far, he had let her do the talking. Mostly, that consisted of ranting.

She spoke with her hands. She was short and wiry and seemed to blame Sam and her late husband for everything, including Wil Stirman, her business problems and the state of her housekeeping.

While she paced around, yel ing at him, Sam focused on the room. He remembered being in this den before. The old Sony Trinitron with rabbit-ear antennae. The leather reclining chair that smel ed of pipe tobacco. The limestone fireplace with the moldy twelve-point buck’s head above the mantel. The watercolor fishing scenes.

This was Fred Barrow’s den. It pleased Sam to come up with the name without looking at his notes.

Maybe it was because the woman kept yel ing that name.

Fred Barrow and Sam had sat here, in this room. They had made a temporary truce, a plan to catch the man they both hated—Wil Stirman.

Sam wondered why the woman hadn’t changed the decor, if she hated her deceased husband so much.

Two reasons occurred to him—she didn’t use this room; or changing it would’ve deprived her of something to complain about. The way she slapped the air when she spoke—this woman liked targets. Probably, she kept the den intact for the same reason people keep their boss’s face on a dartboard.

He felt satisfied with his analysis, then found himself staring at the striped pattern of the woman’s dress and he forgot where he was. Goddamn it. He checked his notepad.

“How can you sit there so calm?” the woman demanded. “What—you’re taking notes on me? Jesus, Barrera. What did Stirman say?”

Sam had the videotape in his lap. For lack of a better idea, he said, “Maybe you should watch this.”

The woman grabbed the cassette and stuck it in the VCR.

The dusty old television flickered green, then showed a badly beaten man tied to a chair. Sam had written the man’s name in his notepad—Gerry Far. He’d underlined it once for each time he watched the tape. Sam stil didn’t recognize the man’s face. That could have been because there wasn’t much left to recognize.

“Barrera?” An off-screen voice—male, West Texas accent. “You remember Gerry Far? He’s going to give a statement now—little different story than the one he told at my trial. I thought you’d like a preview before I send it to the media in forty-eight hours. You ready, Gerry?”

The camera centered on what was left of Gerry Far’s face.

The woman in the striped dress paced in front of the television, cursing in a language Sam didn’t recognize.

Gerry Far got about ten sentences out of his ruined mouth before the woman snarled, “I won’t listen to this.”

She punched the TV’s off button. “Goddamn it, Barrera!”

“Turn it back on,” he said calmly. “You need to see it.”

She made a fist in the air. Then she hit the on button.

Gerry Far told his story in slow painful gulps.

Sam had always been best at reading places, reading people. The way the image shook, the jerky zoom motions, meant a handheld camera rather than a tripod. Stirman’s midsection could be seen moving behind Gerry, his hand occasional y patting Gerry’s shoulder. Stirman had an accomplice doing the filming.

The room had brick wal s, large rectangular windows. Two of the windows were boarded up, but one was not. The bad quality of the video bleached the view outside, but Sam could just make out one cabled support column of the Alamodome. Clouds obscured the angle of the light, but Sam guessed the film had been shot in the late afternoon. If he read the orientation correctly, the building was somewhere just northeast of downtown. A brick warehouse near St. Paul Square. A leap of deduction, maybe, but he was hardly ever wrong.