Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(67)

That was what had happened. No doubt. But where the hel was Stirman?

The team checked the rest of the floor. The rooms were empty. The lieutenant radioed the situation.

Within thirty seconds Major Cooper was inside with a second team. He ordered a sweep of the roof.

By the time Erainya was coherent enough to speak, DeLeon knew there was no one else in the building.

“Left,” Erainya said. “About . . . I don’t remember.”

She was clearly confused, dehydrated, scared out of her wits. She said there had been two men, Wil Stirman and a young Latino Stirman had cal ed Pablo. Stirman had left to get ransom money. As soon as he was gone, Pablo disobeyed Stirman’s orders to guard her and fled. She didn’t know where either of them went. Her son was in danger. Stirman wanted to kil him. That’s al she cared about.

“Damn it,” the SWAT lieutenant said.

Major Cooper looked equal y miffed. It was al fine and good to rescue a hostage, but with no capture, no blood, DeLeon knew it was a wasted evening for him. They had a whole city to search now. Their energy had been directed the wrong way. Sam Barrera and Tres Navarre . . . she would be having a serious conversation with both of them. She hated private eyes.

Her phone rattled again. She had completely forgotten about Ralph.

She stepped to the window and answered the cal .

“I found him,” her husband said.

“What? Is Lucia okay?”

The baby was fine. Ralph told her about Tres’ visit earlier in the day.

She felt the old resentment building—the near-panic that fluttered in her chest whenever Ralph got close to his old life, his old habits.

She control ed her voice. “You went out looking for Stirman?”

“No, just some cal s, mi amor. But that’s not the thing. I know where they’re supposed to deliver Stirman’s money.”

“We’re already at the warehouse. Stirman isn’t here.”

“You’re a couple of miles off. I cal ed Tres—”

“You gave Navarre information first?”

“Just listen, wil you? I cal ed to tel him I’d had no luck tracking Stirman. I got Tres’ machine. I was worried, so I figured what the hel , I’d retrieve his messages, see if he’d gotten anything—”

“You can retrieve Navarre’s messages?”

“How long have I known him, Ana? Shit, yes. I could use his ATM card, if I wanted to.”

She fought back the bite of jealousy. “That doesn’t matter. He played us the message.”

“The second message?”

Time slowed. Ana said, “What second message?”

Ralph laughed appreciatively. “Shit—Tres don’t change. The meet’s at the Art Museum. It’s closed for repairs but Barrera runs security. He’s got the keys. And Ana?”

She was already moving, waving frantical y at the SWAT lieutenant. “Yeah?”

“Try not to shoot Tres, okay? He can’t help himself.”

Chapter 24

Somehow, the gun found its way into my hand.

It may have been the one smashed out of Barrera’s grip, or the one taken from the security guard’s holster. Maybe Barrera had hidden it at the bottom of the black duffel bag.

I figured there was some inverse property to the old statistic—carry a gun, and you are the most likely one to be shot with it. Perhaps if you didn’t carry a gun, you were likely to find one you could use to shoot someone else.

At any rate, the old-fashioned .45 service revolver was lying there on the carpet. I scooped it up and ran into the gloom of the East Tower.

My ears were ringing. I was pretty sure the left side of my face was bleeding. Two blurry sets of steps kaleidoscoped in front of me, then two bathroom doors, then I was inside the men’s room, staring at a bloody handprint on the stal door, but no Jem.

I ran back into the gal ery. An alarm went off—bel s in the distance; the floor lights dimming red.

I wondered what kind of stupid alarm system sounds only when you try to escape the bathroom. Then I noticed the open glass doors leading to the rooftop, the stenciled warning: EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND.

I stepped outside, sinking to a crouch. The rooftop space was L-shaped—a railed patio with a walkway that ran along the back side of the tower. Rain made the tar shingles soft under my feet.

I crept around the corner and could just make out Jem’s shape toward the end of the walkway.

His back was to me. He stood frozen, looking at something—perhaps Sam Barrera’s body below.

As quietly as I could, I cal ed, “Jem.”

No reply.

Stirman must have missed him. Stirman had given up when he heard the alarms. The police cars would be heading this way. It couldn’t take them long.

“Jem,” I said. “Come on—I’l get you out of here.”

I stepped closer and froze.

Jem wasn’t staring over the edge. He was staring at Wil Stirman, who was crouching in front of him at the edge of the walkway.

He was tel ing Jem something, pointing his gun at the boy’s feet. I could’ve sworn he was giving Jem a lecture.

Stirman saw me. He rose, calmly. We leveled our guns at each other.

I could hear police cars now. Tires slashing through water, turning onto Jones. They were running without sirens, but I knew they were cops. There is something unmistakable about the sound of police engines.