Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(41)

She steered me toward the elevator.

In the hospital food court, I was vaguely aware of the other plainclothes detective—an Anglo guy built like a linebacker—fal ing in behind us. He kept his distance, out of earshot.

I bought two tal coffees. DeLeon and I took a corner booth. I drank while DeLeon emptied sugar packets into her cup, three at a time.

“That’l kil you,” I told her.

“I’ve been promised faster deaths.” She stirred, sipped without even making a face. “So where is Stirman?”

“Ask your Fugitive Task Force.”

“Yesterday, you said he was in town.”

I stared into my coffee.

My day had begun with Folgers and goat’s milk, prepared by a blind woman on a ranch. Here it was evening, and I felt like I was stil drinking from the same cup, no wiser than I had been before.

Erainya was missing. An innocent man was upstairs dying. Sam Barrera was cracking under stress. And I’d been asked to tel the police nothing.

“Around five this evening,” DeLeon said, “patrol got a cal . One of Erainya’s neighbors reported seeing her in her front yard with a gun. She was pointing it at Dr. Sanchez. Then Sanchez calmed her down. They left together before patrol could get there. Two hours later, we found Sanchez bleeding to death behind Paesano’s. Erainya was missing. One possibility: She shot her boyfriend and fled.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s also Major Cooper’s working theory.” She nodded toward the linebacker, who sat two tables away, feigning interest in the bluebonnet paintings.

“Major,” I said. “That’s a Department of Criminal Justice rank.”

“Fugitive Task Force,” she said. “I asked him to come with me. Just in case you had something to say.

For the record, Major Cooper does not believe Stirman would stay in San Antonio.”

“He wants a few more people to die?”

“He needs convincing.”

I tried to look her in the eyes, but it was damn uncomfortable.

In the year since I’d seen her last, her face had fil ed out. Her skin had taken on that healthy glow you see in new mothers, her hair cut short to keep little baby hands from grabbing fistfuls.

She seemed more confident, balanced. Maybe that came from the marriage, or the baby, or the promotion. I didn’t know. The fact that I didn’t know made me sad.

I told her about my encounter with Stirman at the soccer field, the videotape he’d sent to Barrera, the McCurdy Ranch, Barrera’s admission that Stirman had been framed.

DeLeon listened, and drank her coffee. I knew she was mental y recording every statement.

“Gerry Far,” she said, “the informant who sold out Stirman eight years ago. We found him this morning— or what was left of him—floating in the San Antonio River. I cal ed the FBI. They weren’t impressed. A guy like Far makes lots of enemies, they told me. Even if Stirman did kil him, he did it days ago, on his way north. Their most recent reliable sighting places Stirman last night in Kansas. They get a hundred leads a day, al of them north. Since the Oklahoma City shooting, every crime from Colorado to Missouri, some jittery witness decides he saw the Floresvil e Five. I’m just another paranoid local cop, in the city where Stirman’s least likely to be.”

“Stirman’s here. I didn’t imagine him.”

“You want me to cal Major Cooper over?”

“So he can dismiss me as paranoid, too?”

“Cooper’s good. Best they’ve got on the state task force. He’s skeptical Stirman would be so stupid as to stay here, but he’s wil ing to listen.”

“If the manhunt moves here in force, the media wil find out. They’l broadcast it. Stirman wil feel the net closing. He’l disappear.”

“Not if we do it quickly and quietly.”

We locked eyes. I wondered if she believed her own words. With a media circus like the Floresvil e Five, there was no way to handle it quickly or quietly. Every law enforcement officer in the state would want a piece. Catching Wil Stirman would be like chasing a speedboat with an aircraft carrier.

“Stirman won’t bother with a hostage if he’s forced to run,” I said. “Erainya wil die.”

“If she’s not already dead. I’m sorry, Tres.”

I shook my head. “If he wanted Erainya dead, he would’ve left her in that al ey along with Sanchez. He took her alive. She’s got something he wants.”

DeLeon stared at the elevator doors.

“You told me there were rumors,” I said. “About the night Stirman was arrested.”

“Maybe I didn’t give you the worst version.”

“How much worse can it be?”

“After Stirman was shot, he was ranting in the hospital, okay? A couple of cops who were guarding him heard the whole story. For one thing, Stirman claimed the PIs had stolen his money. He was this low-tech guy, you understand. Didn’t trust bank accounts or computers. He said he was about to leave on a chartered jet with two duffel bags ful of cash. The PIs supposedly took the money.”

“Assuming it existed, how much would we be talking about?”

“Don’t know. How much could you fit in two large black duffel bags?”

“Jesus.”