Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(61)

Stirman didn’t have time for more. He hung up.

Wil knew what he had to do. He cal ed the prearranged number. When Sam Barrera came on the line, waiting faithful y for instructions, Stirman told him how it would happen.

Chapter 20

I almost didn’t go home.

Looking back, I wonder which lives and deaths might’ve been exchanged had I driven straight toward the money.

But Jem and I both needed to use the little caballeros room. I figured we could make a pit stop at 90 Queen Anne and make our plans from there.

Besides, the radio news from Medina Lake was making me nervous. The Department of Public Safety had announced they could no longer guarantee the structural integrity of Medina Dam, which had been built in 1911 and never reinforced. Water was pouring 10.4 feet over the spil way.

My friend the Castrovil e deputy got a quote in, when asked how worried people should be. “That dam breaks, y’al can expect a sixty-foot-high wal of water. You tel me. “ Four towns downriver were being evacuated. Most of those half-mil ion folk would be heading into San Antonio. It was no time to be on the highway.

Up next, the radio announcer promised, a breaking story about the Floresvil e Five. I glanced over at Jem and turned off the radio.

As he ran into my apartment, Jem yel ed, “Cat!”

Robert Johnson opened one indignant eye.

Jem had long ago refused to believe cats could have surnames, so he’d taken to cal ing Robert Johnson by his species. It was one of the many humiliations Robert Johnson would endure from Jem without drawing blood, because he knew I would pay him off later with a king’s ransom in kitty Tex-Mex.

“Do you have a paper bag?” Jem asked me, delighted.

As much as Robert Johnson loved playing sack-the-cat, I noticed the light on my answering machine was blinking.

I said, “Why don’t you use the restroom first, champ?”

Jem was clearly more interested in tormenting my pet, but he’d started doing the cross-legged dance pretty bad. He dashed off to the john and rol ed the door shut behind him.

Robert Johnson glared at me.

“It builds character,” I said.

The answering machine told me I had two messages.

The first had come in at 1:35 P.M.

“Fred.” Sam Barrera’s voice sent a pang of guilt through my chest. I’d neglected checking on him much too long today. “I’ve found Stirman’s hideout—North Cherry at Rosa Parks. Big brick building, Carrizo Ice Co. There’s been nobody in or out, but I’m pretty sure he’s keeping the woman there. I’l sit on the building as long as I can, but I need backup. Tel the field office to make it quiet this time.”

I stared at the machine.

How Sam Barrera had gotten to a warehouse on the East Side when his BMW was sitting in my driveway, I didn’t know. Perhaps he was imagining the whole thing from his armchair at home. But I had a sneaking suspicion the old bastard was truly mobile, and if Sam was knocking around the East Side looking for Stirman, he’d find trouble fast.

I grabbed my car keys.

The second message played.

This one had been left at 7:43 P.M., a few minutes before I’d walked in.

“Fred.” Sam’s voice again, tighter this time. “Where the hel are you? Stirman just cal ed. I didn’t . . . um, I tried to write it al down but I don’t have my notebook. He’s moved up the meeting time. He didn’t sound good. Something’s wrong. He wants us to bring the money to Jones and Avenue B right now. That’s the museum, right? Shit, did we talk about money? Nothing’s happening at this Carrizo Ice place, but I stil think she’s in there. I mean, the woman. You know. I’d better get over to the rendezvous point and stal him. If you don’t get this— I’l think of something. I think I can take him down. He sounded like he might be hurt. I hate damn answering machines.”

The line went dead.

“Jem,” I cal ed.

He came out of the bathroom. “You found a bag?”

“Champ, we don’t have time—”

Red lights flashed against my windowpanes. A police car had pul ed into the driveway, blocking my truck and Barrera’s BMW. Ana DeLeon and her friend from the Fugitive Task Force, Major Cooper, got out of the back. Two uniforms got out of the front. They walked toward my porch looking like Death’s Prize Patrol.

“On second thought,” I told Jem, “how about you play with Robert Johnson in the backyard for a little while?”

My hand trembled as it hovered over the answering machine. I passed up erase, punched rewind.

A knock at the door. Ana DeLeon was two steps inside my living room before she asked, “May we come in?”

Behind her, the male cops stared at me. I could sense DeLeon was keeping them on a short tether. They would’ve liked nothing better than to tear me apart.

“Always glad to see friends,” I said.

DeLeon formal y introduced Major Cooper, the Task Force guy. Up close, I saw I was right about the linebacker thing. He had the cross-eyed squint of a former player, as if he’d spent too many years staring through a face plate. He wore a brown blazer with jeans and a yel ow and blue tie that looked like Van Gogh had thrown up on it.

DeLeon said, “We have a problem.”

I nodded. “You’re right. He’s a fashion disaster. But I don’t think my clothes wil fit him.”