Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(37)

I glanced down South Presa. Some beat cops were strol ing along, coming our direction. The businessman with the cel phone had hung up. I had maybe four seconds.

I let Dimebox up, pushed his chair around so he was looking at me, pico de gallo chunks dripping off his face. The jalape?os had made burn rings on his cheek.

“You’re holding back on me, Ortiz.”

“Honest to God.”

“Why would Stirman go after Erainya? She wasn’t even part of it.”

Dimebox stared at me, incredulous. “Are you kidding? When I cal ed the night Stirman was going to escape . . . shit, don’t you know . . . ?”

“Speak, Dimebox. Don’t I know what?”

He wiped the salsa off his chin. “Erainya was the go-between for me and Barrow. She’s the one I cal ed.

When they took down Stirman without waiting for the police—hel , yes, she was part of that. It was her goddamn idea.”

Chapter 13

The phone rang for the third time as Erainya was loading her gun.

Tres’ voice on the answering machine: “Okay, now I’m sure you’re home. Pick up.”

She pushed .45 cartridges into the magazine. It was strange looking in the drawer and not seeing Fred’s photo, but it had felt damn good to rip the bastard up and throw him away after so many years.

“I’m coming over,” Tres said. “See you in ten minutes.”

The line went dead.

In ten minutes, she would be gone. Now that Jem was safe in Austin, she knew exactly what she would do.

She would start on the South Side, with a he**in supplier whose little girl Erainya had once rescued. He had excel ent contacts at the Floresvil e State Pen. If anyone could find out who Stirman’s friends were, where he might be hiding, this guy could.

She slapped the magazine in place, felt the heft of the gun. She would have to use both hands. After firing a clip, her forearms would be sore.

But she could stil place a cluster in a man’s chest at fifty feet. She was confident of that. She’d let a lot of things slip, over the years, but not her Saturday mornings at the range.

She aimed at the blasted television, kept her sights steady.

Eight years ago, in this room, she had not been so prepared. It almost cost her life. She’d vowed never to let that happen again.

She remembered her right eye stinging with blood. Her mouth had been salty with the taste of her own busted lip.

Fred had never hit her so hard before.

Then again, she’d never threatened him like that before.

You will not do this to me, he told her.

What am I supposed to do? she screamed. You destroyed that family.

You destroyed them, Irene. That’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it? And now you want to blame it on me? I’ll kill you both.

He meant it, too. His face was distorted with rage, his limbs heavy with bourbon.

He knocked her backward into the desk, and she heard one of her own ribs crack.

She clawed open the drawer, found his gun.

In that moment, Irene died—docile Anglicized Irene, who’d married Fred because he needed a good helper, who’d cleaned his house, filed his papers, answered his phone. Irene told herself Fred didn’t hit her that much. He wasn’t real y as bad as the spouses they were hired to investigate.

Her fingers closed around the butt of the Colt, and Erainya came back—her childhood self, half remembered like her mother’s Aegean lul abies, a little girl who had known how to fight.

She turned on Fred and fired. Once in his shoulder, but he kept coming. So again, into his hip.

He got his hands around her neck, started to squeeze the life out of her as her third shot blew through the side of his chest.

He col apsed on top of her, wet and warm, crushing her, as if he wanted to prove his ownership.

She pushed him off, sat trembling on the desk.

Final y, she cal ed her best friend, Helen Malski.

She heard herself saying, “Listen, honey, I need your help.” She realized she’d already formulated a plan.

She’d known what she was going to do even before she pul ed the trigger.

Self-defense. An easy sel to the jury. Erainya had walked free eight months later.

She raised the matched grip of the Colt, shoved her palm against the butt, imagining a fast reload.

Now, it would not be so easy. The stakes were higher. The man she was fighting was more deadly, but she felt a strange sense of calm.

She would kil Wil Stirman.

He would never threaten her or her son again.

The doorbel startled her.

Even Tres couldn’t drive that fast. Besides, that damn truck of his always rattled the windows when he pul ed in the driveway.

Couldn’t be J.P., either. As much as she wanted to see him, she’d begged off his dinner invitation. She’d made it clear she needed the night alone.

She curled her finger around the trigger of the Colt.

She was halfway down the hal way when her visitor knocked—shave-and-a-haircut, slow and heavy. Too familiar for a solicitor or a deliveryman.

She slipped out the back door, moved barefoot through the soaked grass, and sneaked around the side of the house.

No car was parked on the street. That meant her cal er had either walked or pul ed into the driveway.

She cursed the ranch house design that Fred had always loved. The front bedroom jutted out in a useless fin of bricks so she couldn’t see the driveway or front door. If Stirman had someone with him, a helper parked and waiting, she would be stepping into crossfire.