Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(43)

“Nice to see you, too,” I said.

I cleaned up the present and fil ed Robert Johnson’s dish with tortil a chips and flaked tuna.

Sam Barrera made the grand tour of my apartment. That takes about thirty seconds. Once you’ve seen the futon and the built-in ironing board and the tai chi sword rack above the toilet, you’ve pretty much seen it al .

“Talk,” I told Barrera. “If I have to ask, the bathroom sword is coming unsheathed.”

Barrera sat down on the futon. He opened that annoying notepad of his.

“Sam, it’s not a lecture,” I said. “Put away the notes.”

“Fourteen mil ion dol ars,” he said, quietly.

I set down the tuna can. “Fourteen mil ion.”

“How much we stole. Yeah.”

My fingers felt numb. I wanted to say that was a hel of a lot of money. Large change. A truckload of kitty nachos. Two big goddamn duffel bags. Al I could say was “Damn.”

“Stirman cal ed an hour ago,” Barrera said. “He wants an exchange for Erainya. Tomorrow night. Any police involvement, she dies.”

“Great,” I said. “That’s f**king great, Sam. So we just hop over to Stop-N-Go with our ATM cards, and we’ve got it covered.”

“I don’t have any money. I used my half to build up I-Tech a long time ago. I don’t know what Erainya did with Fred’s share. She sure as hel didn’t put it into the agency.”

“Erainya’s been scraping for money ever since I’ve known her. She’s got no hidden cash.”

“She had to know.”

I thought about the note to Erainya from H., tel ing her the package from Fred was safe.

“She would’ve turned it in,” I said, trying to believe it. “You should’ve turned it in.”

“We had to take it,” Sam said. “Stirman would’ve paid for the best defense. That kind of cash . . . we didn’t even trust the cops. Stirman had friends in the department, in the state attorney’s office. We didn’t want any chance he’d get off the hook. There was no choice.”

“Doing your civic duty,” I said. “A real self-sacrifice. What about Stirman’s baby, Sam? Was there no choice on that, too?”

His eyes took on the kind of deadness I was used to seeing in victims of violence, or col ared criminals.

“We didn’t mean to,” he said.

Rain rattled at the window screens.

Robert Johnson pushed his food dish around.

I tried to think of something to say—some condemnation strong enough.

The phone rang. I pul ed the ironing board away from the wal .

Sam said, “You’ve got a phone behind your ironing board.”

“You must be a detective.” I reached into the alcove, which had been constructed by some day-tripping carpenter in the sixties, and picked up the receiver. “Tres Navarre.”

Silence.

Then Wil Stirman’s voice said: “Shitty little apartment, Navarre. Can’t she afford to pay you better?”

I snapped my fingers to get Barrera’s attention, but I’d lost him. He was stil staring at the ironing board, trying to come to terms with the phone’s unorthodox location.

“Put Erainya on, Stirman,” I said. “Let me hear she’s okay.”

He ignored my request. “Instructions: I’l cal Barrera’s mobile number tomorrow evening, around midnight.

I’l tel you where to bring the money. You, Sam and Erainya’s boy. Nobody else.”

“You think I’m going to bring Jem anywhere near you, you’ve been locked up in the wrong kind of institution.”

There was a pause I didn’t like at al . “We’l al be better behaved with the kid around. A lot less anxious for the guns to come out.”

There was something about his tone I couldn’t quite nail down. What the hel did he want with Jem?

“Nothing that happened to you was Erainya’s fault,” I said. “It damn sure wasn’t her son’s.”

I looked out the dark windows. Stirman could be on the street right now. Or in the al ey. He could’ve cased my place days ago.

“Mr. Navarre,” he said, “eight years ago there was another mother and child. They hadn’t done anything, either. I won’t hurt the Manoses, as long as you and Mr. Barrow don’t disappoint me.”

“What makes you think the money is stil around, or that I can get it?”

“You’re a resourceful young man. And Mr. Navarre, be smart. If I get indications you have talked to the police, it wil go very hard on you and everyone you care about. And don’t think Austin is far enough away.”

He hung up.

Robert Johnson leapt onto the ironing board. He pushed his back against my hand. I wanted to think he was consoling me. More likely, he was reminding me that he liked dessert after tuna nachos.

“Wel ?” Sam asked.

I told him the details. “How much cash could you raise?”

“If I liquidated everything? Took everything out of savings? I don’t know. Nowhere near three mil ion.”

“Seven,” I said.

“What?”

“Your half was seven mil ion.”

He kept his hand on his notepad, as if it were a railing.