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.”
DeLeon managed to contain her mirth. “Twenty minutes ago, Wil Stirman robbed a mom-and-pop on South Presa. The store owner stabbed him in the shoulder; Stirman shot the old guy dead. We blocked off the entire area, but Stirman stil got away. Now we’ve got a wounded armed fugitive roaming the South Side.”
“Straight down Broadway,” I advised. “When you hit downtown, keep going.”
“This is bul shit,” Cooper said. “Cuff him.”
DeLeon held up her hand. The uniforms stayed where they were.
“Tres, no games,” she said. “The media is running with the story. Every cop in Bexar County who’s not already on flood duty has been cal ed up. We need to know what you know.”
In the backyard, Jem was kicking his soccer bal at the patio table. He was trying to dislodge Robert Johnson, who was playing goalie. The score was zero–zero.
“You said it yourself,” DeLeon reminded me. “If Stirman is forced to run, he won’t bother keeping a hostage alive. We may have minutes rather than hours.”
I glanced at Cooper. His face betrayed no surprise. He’d been ful y briefed on Erainya.
I tried not to be angry. I tried not to feel like DeLeon had betrayed me by showing up unannounced with a bunch of bruisers. It wasn’t her fault. She was doing her job, trying to help. Ralph had told me I should trust her, let her handle it. Maybe that’s what decided me.
“Stirman cal ed last night,” I said. “He thinks Barrow and Barrera stole fourteen mil ion dol ars from him.
He demanded we return it.”
No one looked surprised about the amount of cash.
DeLeon said, “When and where?”
“Tonight. He’s supposed to cal after midnight and specify a drop.”
“You found the money?”
“No.”
DeLeon arched an eyebrow.
“Search the house,” I offered.
DeLeon must’ve never heard of a bluff. She glanced at the uniforms. “Gentlemen?”
They tore up my apartment with gusto.
“While they’re at it,” she said, “mind if I search you for a weapon?”
Motherhood hadn’t made her any gentler when it came to frisks.
Once she satisfied herself I wasn’t carrying, and the cops found nothing more incriminating than my tai chi sword above the toilet and a cup ful of HEB Buddy Buck coupons, DeLeon and Cooper exchanged looks.
“We’l tap the line,” Cooper said. “Wait for the cal .”
“No,” DeLeon and I chorused.
I’m not sure who was more embarrassed by our agreement.
“Stirman’s wounded,” DeLeon said. “If he’s listening to the news, he knows we’re on to him. He’s not going to keep a schedule. He’l cut his losses and run.”
“We’ve got every highway under surveil ance,” Cooper said. “We’l shut down the fucking city. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Right,” I said. “You’re just toying with him now.”