Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(47)

Only one other option, even riskier.

What kept her going was the memory of J.P. getting shot. Her anger braided around her spine like an iron coil.

Pablo’s gun was sitting on the table. She heard him in the next room, rummaging around.

Move, she told herself.

She grabbed the gun and walked to the door.

Pablo was kneeling over a milk crate. He was holding a phone, cursing as he tried to dial a number.

Shoot him, she told herself.

She aimed.

This one, Pablo, she didn’t hate enough.

He hadn’t pul ed the trigger on J.P. She could see in his eyes he hated Stirman as much as she did. He’d fed her soup.

So f**king what? Shoot!

Then he turned and saw her. His eyes got small.

“Put it down,” he told her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’ve got the gun, Pablo.”

He took a step toward her. “No bul ets in it.”

She aimed at the center of his chest.

He took another step and she squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

He grabbed her wrist. She managed to punch him in the nose—a weak effort, but enough to loosen his grip. She made it a few steps toward the stairs before he tackled her and dragged her back into her cel .

She screamed, but there was no one to hear.

He flung her onto the mattress, stood over her, breathing heavy, dabbing his bloody nose. On the radio, Diane Rehm was talking about trusting your spouse.

Erainya felt like crying, but she held on to her anger.

She sat up, touched the back of her head where it had struck the wal .

After a long time, she asked Pablo, “Those were your friends who died in Omaha?”

For a moment, he became that young man in the al ey behind Paesano’s again—a contrite, harmless kid.

“One of them . . . my cousin . . . if he’s real y dead.”

“You’ve been keeping in touch,” she guessed. “You just tried to cal him.”

Pablo didn’t answer.

“Stirman wouldn’t approve,” she persisted. “Little harder to trace mobile cal s, but they can do it. They find your cousin’s phone, honey, they find out he’s been making cal s to San Antonio—”

“Shut up.”

“Time’s running out.”

“Just give Stirman his money, and nobody’s going to hurt you. Do that, we’re gone.”

“I don’t have the money.”

“Cooperate, lady. You could go home. So could I.”

“You believe that, Pablo? Is that what Stirman promised your friends in Omaha?”

Blood trickled from his nostril. Pablo didn’t seem to notice.

If Erainya could just get him on her side . . .

“Honey,” she said, more gently, “what were you in prison for?”

Pablo studied her warily, as if he were afraid she’d make fun of him. “I kil ed a man.”

“You’re not a natural kil er. What did this man do?”

“He was . . . I came home, and he was with my wife.”

Aha, she thought. Keep him talking. Be his friend.

“You stil want her back?” she asked. “Wil she stil be waiting?”

Erainya realized she’d made a mistake when she saw the anger in his eyes.

“She didn’t do anything,” he said tightly. “They were talking on the bed, but . . . it wasn’t what I thought.”

“Okay, honey,” Erainya said, trying to placate him. “So what happened?”

Pablo looked at his gun. “Couple of weeks, Angelina had been spending money, going out at weird times. Then a neighbor saw this guy come over to the house twice while I was at work. I came home with a shotgun one night . . . but it wasn’t what I thought. She’d hired a private eye. Somebody like you. Angelina had lost her family coming across the Rio Grande years ago, see. She hired this guy to find them. Didn’t think I’d approve of her spending the money. That’s why she didn’t tel me.”

“You shot the PI.”

“No, see . . . the PI had some luck.” He closed his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was heavier, chained with guilt. “Angelina had just started meeting this guy he’d located. They were in the bedroom looking at Angelina’s photos. They were talking about old times, trying to figure out what happened to their mother. The man I shot was Angelina’s brother.”

Diane Rehm’s grandmotherly voice fil ed the room. Sunlight pulsed through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, heating the air like steamed cotton.

Despite the fact that Pablo was holding a gun, Erainya felt so bad for the young man that she had a sudden urge to put a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, the way she would do for Jem.

“Honey,” she said, “does your wife want you back?”

He blinked. “She’l meet me in Mexico. I wrote her what to do. If she read the letters . . .”

Erainya looked away.

She knew his plans for a happy ending were nothing but smoke. He would never see his wife again. He would be gunned down, or die on Death Row.

“You’l see her,” she lied. “But don’t wait for Stirman. Even if he gets his money, he won’t let either of us go home. This is the only chance we’re going to get, Pablo. Your wife wants you back.”