Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(40)

A battered white Chevrolet was blocking the al ey behind the restaurant. It idled at a crazy angle, headlights il uminating 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 Brunel o 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 ful , the al ey 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. “Wel , it’s fixable, anyway.”

“Real y 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 dol ars.”

Erainya decided the young man wasn’t a waiter. Something about his tattoo was wrong, and the way he held himself—not real y sheepish, after al . 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’l 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 tal , 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 bul et ripped through the white broadcloth above his belt. Erainya wanted to scream. She wanted to move. But the Colt in her purse might as wel have been at home.

J.P. crumpled to his knees.

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

Chapter 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 pul ed desk duty for a month and stil had trouble sitting down without pain.

She saw me approaching, told her col eagues 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 hel with visiting hours.”

She studied my face. “I suppose I’l 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’l do another round of surgery if he makes it through the night.”

“Did he talk at al ?”

“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 smel his cologne.

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

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