The child’s body conveniently disappears. A lot easier to conceal that kind of murder than the death of an adult.”
I wanted to say it wasn’t possible.
Then I remembered Barrera’s haunted look as he toured the McCurdy Ranch, as if he needed to remind himself there’d been justification for what he and Barrow had done.
Erainya had killed Fred Barrow only a few weeks after Stirman’s arrest. Fred had been treating her like dirt for years. Maybe something besides the abuse had made her snap-some new proof Fred Barrow was a monster.
“No cop wants to believe a guy like Stirman,” DeLeon said. “None of them spread these rumors outside the department. By the time Stirman got to trial, he’d gone tight-lipped. He never mentioned the dead child or the money again. Like he’d already started planning his own revenge. But if you’re wondering why Barrera and your boss weren’t anxious to bring in the police…”
“Give me a few hours,” I said. “Let me talk to Barrera.”
“Major Cooper is willing to listen now. He might not believe you, but if he gets the idea later that you held back information-”
“I could deal with Stirman more effectively my way.”
“You mean Ralph’s way.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to tell her about her husband’s track record for finding his enemies, or what he did with them afterward. I knew she wouldn’t want Ralph to have any part of this.
She sipped her coffee, no doubt trying to contain her anger. “Tres
… if somebody killed my baby… I wouldn’t care how much money they stole from me or where they hid it. Do you understand? I wouldn’t trust myself to keep them alive long enough to find out. And this is me talking, the law- abiding one. When I think about how somebody like my husband might react…”
She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t need to.
“Just a couple of hours,” I said. “I’ll call you tonight.”
She looked at Major Cooper, two tables away. She shook her head.
“You didn’t see what Gerry Far looked like when we pulled him out of the river, Tres.” She slid out from the booth, pulled on her raincoat. “For Erainya’s sake, don’t wait too long.”
When I got home to 90 Queen Anne, the two-story craftsman was dark except for my little in-law apartment on the side. Rainwater streamed down the driveway, carrying away petals from my landlord’s purple sages and blue plumbagos.
Sam Barrera waited on my stoop in the glow of the porch light. He was catching moths and shaking them like dice.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“It’ll cost you.”
Sam studied me.
I tried to remember if I’d ever seen him with a five-o’clock shadow before, or with his tie loosened.
He said, “Cost me?”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir. Two bags full.”
He released his moth, watched it flutter up the side of the screen door. “So you know.”
In my younger days, I would’ve hauled off and decked him, but I’d mellowed over the years. Now I was perfectly willing to breathe deep, thinking rationally, and invest the few extra minutes it would take to invite him inside, find a gun, load it, and shoot him.
“Mi casa es tu casa,” I told him.
I unlocked the front door, just missed stepping on the dead mouse Robert Johnson had left for me on the carpet.
The offending feline sat smugly on the kitchen counter. He had one paw in the middle of his empty food dish. A subtle hint.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said.
I cleaned up the present and filled Robert Johnson’s dish with tortilla chips and flaked tuna.
Sam Barrera made the grand tour of my apartment. That takes about thirty seconds. Once you’ve seen the futon and the built-in ironing board and the tai chi sword rack above the toilet, you’ve pretty much seen it all.
“Talk,” I told Barrera. “If I have to ask, the bathroom sword is coming unsheathed.”
Barrera sat down on the futon. He opened that annoying notepad of his.
“Sam, it’s not a lecture,” I said. “Put away the notes.”
“Fourteen million dollars,” he said, quietly.
I set down the tuna can. “Fourteen million.”
“How much we stole. Yeah.”
My fingers felt numb. I wanted to say that was a hell of a lot of money. Large change. A truckload of kitty nachos. Two big goddamn duffel bags. All I could say was “Damn.”
“Stirman called an hour ago,” Barrera said. “He wants an exchange for Erainya. Tomorrow night. Any police involvement, she dies.”
“Great,” I said. “That’s fucking great, Sam. So we just hop over to Stop-N-Go with our ATM cards, and we’ve got it covered.”
“I don’t have any money. I used my half to build up I-Tech a long time ago. I don’t know what Erainya did with Fred’s share. She sure as hell didn’t put it into the agency.”
“Erainya’s been scraping for money ever since I’ve known her. She’s got no hidden cash.”
“She had to know.”
I thought about the note to Erainya from H., telling her the package from Fred was safe.
“She would’ve turned it in,” I said, trying to believe it. “ You should’ve turned it in.”
“We had to take it,” Sam said. “Stirman would’ve paid for the best defense. That kind of cash… we didn’t even trust the cops. Stirman had friends in the department, in the state attorney’s office. We didn’t want any chance he’d get off the hook. There was no choice.”
“Doing your civic duty,” I said. “A real self-sacrifice. What about Stirman’s baby, Sam? Was there no choice on that, too?”
His eyes took on the kind of deadness I was used to seeing in victims of violence, or collared criminals.
“We didn’t mean to,” he said.
Rain rattled at the window screens.
Robert Johnson pushed his food dish around.
I tried to think of something to say-some condemnation strong enough.
The phone rang. I pulled the ironing board away from the wall.
Sam said, “You’ve got a phone behind your ironing board.”
“You must be a detective.” I reached into the alcove, which had been constructed by some day-tripping carpenter in the sixties, and picked up the receiver. “Tres Navarre.”
Silence.
Then Will Stirman’s voice said: “Shitty little apartment, Navarre. Can’t she afford to pay you better?”
I snapped my fingers to get Barrera’s attention, but I’d lost him. He was still staring at the ironing board, trying to come to terms with the phone’s unorthodox location.
“Put Erainya on, Stirman,” I said. “Let me hear she’s okay.”
He ignored my request. “Instructions: I’ll call Barrera’s mobile number tomorrow evening, around midnight. I’ll tell you where to bring the money. You, Sam and Erainya’s boy. Nobody else.”
“You think I’m going to bring Jem anywhere near you, you’ve been locked up in the wrong kind of institution.”
There was a pause I didn’t like at all. “We’ll all be better behaved with the kid around. A lot less anxious for the guns to come out.”
There was something about his tone I couldn’t quite nail down. What the hell did he want with Jem?
“Nothing that happened to you was Erainya’s fault,” I said. “It damn sure wasn’t her son’s.”
I looked out the dark windows. Stirman could be on the street right now. Or in the alley. He could’ve cased
