eliminate any reason to keep Evan and Cara alive, making solitary confinement the safest place for him and for his kids.
I ran through it again and again, each time coming to the same conclusion. Whoever had Evan and Cara wasn’t trying to kill Jimmy and, therefore, hadn’t killed Frank Crenshaw and Nick Staley. Someone else was collecting dead bodies, someone who had a stake in the theft ring. Which meant that Jimmy was into something else heavy enough that his kids’ lives hung in the balance.
The third thing was Jimmy’s reaction when I told him about the Dodge Ram. He was cornered but didn’t know what to do except fight.
The county jail was at Thirteenth and Cherry on the east side of downtown. Lucy and Kate had insisted on driving me, but I’d refused and had taken the bus. It was a small-scale declaration of independence, one I made to have time to think things through on my own and to remind myself that there was still such a thing as my own time, my own way, my own life.
The week was piling up on me, and my body was vibrating like a tuning fork. It was late afternoon, the sun surrendering to grimy clouds that matched the fog creeping into my brain. The October air had quickened, turning cold, smelling of rain. I cinched up my jacket collar and began moving, wrestling with the possible permutations, hoping I couldn’t walk and shake at the same time.
I started with Frank Crenshaw and Jimmy’s construction materials recycling operation. Crenshaw didn’t strike me as management. From his lazy eye to the failure of his business to the short-tempered murder of his wife, he wasn’t a guy who would know how to put together a stolen-goods ring to pay the bills.
Nick Staley was a better choice. He knew the importance of diversifying, buying rental properties, and he was willing to rob Peter to pay Paul, diverting rental income to his grocery. Most of all, having been an Army sergeant, he was a man used to giving orders. Using Jimmy to steal construction materials and Crenshaw to fence them had to have been his idea. That’s what he brought to the table in return for his cut, that and his son, who had to know what was going on and was likely doing his bit for the cause.
Like any plan that looked good on paper, it was undone by human foibles and overlooked details. With Jimmy, it was an expired tag. For Frank, it was the pressure of crossing a line he never imagined crossing and a wife who rejected his midlife career change.
And for all of them, it was Frank’s gun that pulled loose the final fatal thread, unraveling Braylon Jennings’s investigation of Cesar Mendez. Brett Staley was Jennings’s confidential informant, making him the nexus between his father’s operation and Mendez. If Mendez found it necessary to have Frank Crenshaw killed to protect his gun trafficking, he’d likely have felt the same about Crenshaw’s partners, forcing Brett to act as his proxy.
I liked that mosaic until I tried to fit in the piece with Eberto Garza’s name on it. If Brett Staley had killed his father, why would he wait in the store all night only to kill Eberto? It made more sense that Brett hadn’t killed his father, that instead the killer was waiting for him to close the circle. Perhaps Mendez had sent Eberto to check on things at the grocery, and in the dark, the killer, exhausted and stressed from killing one man and waiting for another, had shot Eberto by mistake.
It was a way to make the piece about Eberto Garza fit, but it felt like I was squaring a round edge. That was a lot of killing to hide the origin of a single gun. It was like shooting your dick off because you had an itch in your crotch.
There was another problem. Jimmy had to have taken his orders from someone. If it was Nick, he had no reason to lie about it since Nick was dead. Conclusion: Nick was taking orders from someone higher up in the chain of command, and Jimmy didn’t know whom that was.
Isolating Jimmy from that information was insurance against him giving it up, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying to figure it out. If Ricky Suarez frightened him enough to stage an escape, he must have suspected that Cesar Mendez was on top of the totem pole.
I was migrating north and west, aiming for the Transit Plaza at Tenth amp; Main with no more of a plan than to take the Number 24 out Independence Avenue, get off, and keep walking until I found Cesar Mendez or he found me. As plans went, it was a lousy one, but it was the best I could do.
I reached Main and turned north, passing a parking garage, feeling more than seeing someone behind me, his footsteps matching mine, keeping a distance I guessed at ten feet for half a block. I stopped at the traffic light at Twelfth and Main, not turning to see what he would do. There were three other people on my corner and more crossing toward me, plus traffic moving in all four directions, making a daylight attack unlikely.
“I hear you’re looking for Cesar Mendez,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned around. It was the hostage negotiator, Jeremiah Quinn.
Chapter Sixty-six
The thing that most struck me about Quinn when I met him at the Municipal Farm was his nonchalance, his water-off-a-duck’s-back reaction to a man holding a woman hostage, a homemade knife at her throat. I’d known guys like him on the bomb squad, guys who looked at a bundle of wires wrapped around a package of explosives and shrapnel the way the people who do the New York Times crossword puzzle in ink look at the Sunday edition, an interesting problem to be solved but not one they hadn’t seen before.
They lived for the competition, the higher the stakes the better. And like a center fielder that drifts back, loping to the warning track, glove extended at the last second, making a snow-cone catch and bouncing off the wall with a smile before trotting to the dugout, they made it look easy.
I wasn’t one of those guys. I sweated a case from start to finish, second-guessing, starting over, feeling a piece of me die if it went bad, thanking a god I wasn’t certain I believed in when it went right. In the years since I began shaking I sometimes wondered if going all in all the time hadn’t taken a toll on my brain, stressing a neural connection until it short-circuited. The doctors told me no, but what did they know? They couldn’t even come up with a better name for my movement disorder than “tics.”
The light changed, people sliding past us, scattered wind whipping raindrops splattering at our feet. I flashed on images of Quinn talking to Kate in the ambulance, handing her a card, and of Kate walking out of Simon’s office saying she had to make a call and staying in the car when we got to Roni Chase’s house to make another.
“Kate Scranton called you,” I said.
“She’s persistent.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That you’re proud, stubborn, and resistant to reason.”
“That’s it?”
“And she said you need a minder.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her I don’t babysit.”
“What do you do?”
“I help people make peace or make war.”
“I thought you were a hostage negotiator,” I said.
“That’s the peace part. Not every conflict can be resolved. People need help with the fight too.”
“How do you do that?”
He shrugged. “Make sure they know what they’re fighting for and why and that they understand what they have to do to win. If they can’t do it or aren’t willing to do it, then it’s time to make peace.”
“And if they are willing to do it?”
“I show them how.”
“Ever do it for them?”
“If they can’t and if they pay me enough.”
“What if they can’t pay you?”
“Maybe. If I care enough about who wins.”
“Is Kate paying you?”
“We’ll see.”
He was shorter than me and younger by at least ten years. He also carried less weight, but more of it was
