Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(35)

“No,” Stirman insisted. He took a deep breath, and Pablo knew he was fil ing himself with that cold, homicidal sense of purpose Pablo had seen too many times over the last few days. “Change of plans, amigo. We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter 12

Robert Johnson was a great help going through the agency’s old files.

He would crouch at the far end of the living room, get a running start, and dive straight through them like a snowplow. Then he would look at me, wild-eyed, a manila folder tented over his head.

“Yes, thanks,” I said. “That’s much better.”

In terms of finding important information, however, neither of us was having much luck.

The only things that belonged to Erainya in the locked file cabinet were mementos of her transitional year, from Barrow’s wife to self-made PI. There were stacks of clippings about her defense trial in Fred’s murder.

Her change-of-name paperwork, official y declaring her to be Erainya Manos. Her U.S. passport, stamped for Greece. Jem’s adoption paperwork from a Texas-based agency cal ed Children First International. His birth date, which Erainya had told me was a guess—April 28, 1995. His birth parents’ names: Abdul and Mariah Suleimaniyah. The usual signatures and medical work. A letter from some government official in Bosnia-Herzegovina, authorizing Jem’s release to Erainya’s custody.

An early picture of Erainya and Jem. Jem looked about one year old. His dark eyes were wide with amazement as the woman with the frizzy black hair held him up to the camera and kissed his cheek.

I went through some of Erainya’s correspondence. Several notes of support from women’s advocacy groups. Fan letters from women who admired her for shooting her husband.

I put those down. They made me nervous.

The rest of the stuff was from Fred Barrow’s time.

I’d always thought of Fred as an old man, but the only photograph I found showed him looking not much older than me. It must’ve been from the early eighties. Fred’s greasy black hair was parted in the middle, too long at the col ar. He had a square face, battered from years as an amateur boxer. His eyes were sly and shal ow, his smile insincere. He looked like a wife-beater, in the middle of saying, Look, officer, you know how these women are.

I didn’t want to find anything that would make me like him, but he did seem to have a soft spot for il egal immigrants. His first job out of col ege was ten years with the Border Patrol, and the experience must’ve affected him. After opening the PI agency, he’d taken on a number of cases, either pro bono or at reduced fees, to help families in Mexico find missing kin in the north, or to help prosecute coyotes like Wil Stirman.

He liked fishing and hunting.

He relished divorce cases. Even his enemies admitted he was a tenacious investigator.

He almost lost his PI license once when he’d assaulted a federal agent who’d questioned his integrity in a high-profile drug trafficking case. Fred Barrow had been working for the defense. The federal agent made a comment about Barrow’s testimony being “the best fabrication money could buy.” Later, at a bar near the courthouse, Barrow decked the agent with a left hook. A judge friendly to both parties managed to smooth things over, at least legal y. The federal agent’s name was Samuel Barrera.

There was nothing to indicate the two men had framed Wil Stirman. Just meticulous notes on their interviews with Gerry Far and Dimebox Ortiz, outlining Stirman’s operation, and confirming that McCurdy had been a regular client. In exchange for their testimony, Far and Ortiz had escaped prosecution. Far had taken over Stirman’s operation. And Dimebox Ortiz . . . what had he gotten out of the deal?

I wrote on my otherwise blank notepad: Dimebox Ortiz?

I set that question aside for the moment. If Dimebox had any brains, he was several hundred miles away by now.

Robert Johnson dive-bombed the stack I’d just gone through and sent papers flying.

“Thanks,” I said.

As I was picking them up, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. It was a piece of stationery that must’ve been stuck between envelopes in Erainya’s correspondence. The note was from a woman. I could tel that from the handwriting. She wrote: Irene, You’ll be acquitted and back with us before you know it. Don’t worry. And the package from Fred —relax. It’s safely hidden.

Love, H.

The package from Fred?

I read the note again. It stil said the same thing.

Wil Stirman wanted something from Barrera and Barrow, something Erainya felt guilty about.

I looked at the cat. “You’re a genius.”

He looked at me wild-eyed. He probably couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to catch on.

I needed to strong-arm somebody for more information. Somebody who wasn’t Sam or Erainya; they would only lie to me more. Somebody who knew Wil Stirman, and wasn’t dead yet.

I looked at my notes. I’d written two words: Dimebox Ortiz?

At this point, under normal circumstances, I would’ve cal ed my friend Ralph Arguel o, Ana DeLeon’s husband. He specialized in finding lowlife scumbags. He delighted in strong-arming them. But I hadn’t talked to Ralph in almost a year. The longer the silence got, the more stubborn I felt about not breaking it.

Besides, I had an unreturned message from his wife on my answering machine, asking why I hadn’t shown up at the police station last night like I’d promised.