Ralph Arguello.
He never called her at work. She imagined the baby in the emergency room, the house burning down-what would it take for him to call like this?
There was nothing she could do. She stuck the phone back in her pocket and took out her sidearm.
The lieutenant in charge waved the team forward. Four guys in body armor moved into the warehouse, DeLeon in the rear, the unwelcome guest.
She wasn’t worried about her own safety, or about capturing Stirman.
SAPD had the whole area ringed with snipers, cordoned off with a double perimeter, two helicopters on standby. If Stirman was inside, he was screwed. The problem was getting Erainya out in one piece.
They secured the first floor in twenty seconds. Stairs led up, exactly where the schematics said they should. The shot had come from above-third or fourth floor, about where long-range mikes had zeroed in on voices.
Sixty-three seconds later, the team was in the fourth-floor corridor. DeLeon was melting from the heat and the Kevlar. She forgot about that when she heard Erainya’s voice-yelling for help.
There was an open doorway at the end of the hall.
Smaller voices-two men in conversation.
“In here!” Erainya yelled. “Anybody?”
It wasn’t the voice of a woman being held at gunpoint. But something felt wrong to DeLeon.
The SWAT lieutenant looked back at the entry team-not a question, but a silent warning. He, too, sensed the wrongness of the situation, the team’s uneasiness. But his look made it clear they would be following the plan.
Their point man moved to the doorway, threw in the flash grenade.
The subsonic boom shook the plaster. Anyone within twenty feet would be knocked senseless.
The team moved in.
Their laser sites made a cluster of red dots on the source of the men’s voices-a portable radio.
Under the window, next to an overturned table, Erainya Manos lay stunned, her legs bound and a duct tape gag half peeled off her mouth. Her hands had been tied behind her, but one of them was partially free. That hand gripped a pistol.
DeLeon scanned the scene with disbelief. Erainya had crawled from the pile of filthy blankets in the corner, managed to kick over the table, where her captor had foolishly left a gun. She’d gotten her fingers free enough to grasp the pistol and fire a shot for help.
That was what had happened. No doubt. But where the hell 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, Will Stirman and a young Latino Stirman had called 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 kill him. That’s all she cared about.
“Damn it,” the SWAT lieutenant said.
Major Cooper looked equally miffed. It was all 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 call.
“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 controlled her voice. “You went out looking for Stirman?”
“No, just some calls, 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 called Tres-”
“You gave Navarre information first?”
“Just listen, will you? I called to tell him I’d had no luck tracking Stirman. I got Tres’ machine. I was worried, so I figured what the hell, 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 frantically at the SWAT lieutenant. “Yeah?”
“Try not to shoot Tres, okay? He can’t help himself.”
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 stall door, but no Jem.
I ran back into the gallery. An alarm went off-bells 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 called, “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’ll get you out of here.”
I stepped closer and froze.
Jem wasn’t staring over the edge. He was staring at Will Stirman, who was crouching in front of him at the edge of the walkway.
