to better destroy the videotape. She cracked it across the edge of the TV, wrapped it in a section of newspaper, tossed it into the fireplace. She took a box of matches off the mantel.
From a professional point of view, Sam was thinking this was a highly inefficient way of destroying evidence. Acid would be better. Or a wood chipper.
The doctor was still glowering at him. Must be her boyfriend, Sam figured. Meanwhile, the young coach was zeroing in on the important stuff—the battered courier’s envelope, the video in the fireplace, Barrera’s notepad.
He tried to read Barrera’s expression.
Good luck,
Sam thought.
Sam calmly picked up his pen and wrote,
YMCA Coach
.
Erainya’s PI.
He underlined it. He’d had a run-in with this guy in the past. He was sure of that.
The woman crouched by the fireplace, striking matches. She lit the corners of the newspaper.
The coach scooped up the woman’s gun, unloaded it. “Videotape won’t burn that way.”
She said, “I know what I’m doing.”
“Erainya, we need to talk. Jem’s all right. He’s fine. But we had a visitor at school.”
Her eyes blazed. Sam was suddenly glad the coach had taken her gun.
“J.P.,” she said, her voice tight, “would you check on Jem, please?”
The doctor started to come toward her. “Erainya . . .”
“Please, J.P. Go see about Jem. I’ll only be a minute.”
Sam could tell the doctor wasn’t used to feeling unwanted. He swallowed, nodded reluctantly, then closed the door on his way out.
“All right, what happened?” the woman demanded.
The coach told them about Will Stirman visiting the school soccer field, trying to take Jem.
Sam took notes—put a question mark after the name
Jem
. The woman’s son?
“Stop that,” the woman snapped.
Sam looked up, realized she was talking to him.
“Put away the damn notebook,” she said. “You should have killed Stirman when you had the chance. You and Fred couldn’t even do that right.”
“We weren’t out to kill anybody,” Sam said. He felt pretty confident it was the truth.
The woman rose. “We are now. We have to find Stirman.”
The flue of the chimney must’ve been closed. The smell of burning paper and melted tape filled the room. A rag of ash sailed past the woman’s head.
The coach said, “You seriously think the two of you can track him down alone? You think you could pull the trigger?”
Judging from the woman’s expression, Sam thought he could answer the second question.
“You’re not thinking straight,” the coach said. “Call the police.”
The woman slapped the air. “I
can’t
.”
“No police,” Sam agreed.
The coach picked up the courier envelope. There was nothing inside. No sender’s address. Sam Barrera’s office address had been typed.
“You refused police protection,” the coach said. “You knew Stirman was coming. Now he’s threatening Jem. And you won’t call the police. Why?”
“They won’t catch him,” the woman said. “Even if we told them he was here, even if they believed us, Stirman would vanish. He’d be back next month, next year, five years from now. I won’t live like that, knowing he’s out there. I won’t risk my son.”
The coach could probably sense there was more, just as Sam could. The woman, Sam remembered, had never been a good liar. It was one of her professional liabilities.
“What’s on the video?” the coach asked.
“Gerry Far’s execution,” Sam put in. “Stirman’s old lieutenant.”
“One of the men who testified against him,” the coach said.
Sam nodded. The young man was making him uncomfortable. He was a little too intelligent, a little too curious. He was the kind of detective who would dig for the sake of digging, who wouldn’t abide loose ends even when he was told to. If he’d worked for I-Tech, Sam decided, he would’ve been fired long ago—insubordination, breach of policy, something. Sam decided he would never let himself be alone with the coach. The
From a professional point of view, Sam was thinking this was a highly inefficient way of destroying evidence. Acid would be better. Or a wood chipper.
The doctor was still glowering at him. Must be her boyfriend, Sam figured. Meanwhile, the young coach was zeroing in on the important stuff—the battered courier’s envelope, the video in the fireplace, Barrera’s notepad.
He tried to read Barrera’s expression.
Good luck,
Sam thought.
Sam calmly picked up his pen and wrote,
YMCA Coach
.
Erainya’s PI.
He underlined it. He’d had a run-in with this guy in the past. He was sure of that.
The woman crouched by the fireplace, striking matches. She lit the corners of the newspaper.
The coach scooped up the woman’s gun, unloaded it. “Videotape won’t burn that way.”
She said, “I know what I’m doing.”
“Erainya, we need to talk. Jem’s all right. He’s fine. But we had a visitor at school.”
Her eyes blazed. Sam was suddenly glad the coach had taken her gun.
“J.P.,” she said, her voice tight, “would you check on Jem, please?”
The doctor started to come toward her. “Erainya . . .”
“Please, J.P. Go see about Jem. I’ll only be a minute.”
Sam could tell the doctor wasn’t used to feeling unwanted. He swallowed, nodded reluctantly, then closed the door on his way out.
“All right, what happened?” the woman demanded.
The coach told them about Will Stirman visiting the school soccer field, trying to take Jem.
Sam took notes—put a question mark after the name
Jem
. The woman’s son?
“Stop that,” the woman snapped.
Sam looked up, realized she was talking to him.
“Put away the damn notebook,” she said. “You should have killed Stirman when you had the chance. You and Fred couldn’t even do that right.”
“We weren’t out to kill anybody,” Sam said. He felt pretty confident it was the truth.
The woman rose. “We are now. We have to find Stirman.”
The flue of the chimney must’ve been closed. The smell of burning paper and melted tape filled the room. A rag of ash sailed past the woman’s head.
The coach said, “You seriously think the two of you can track him down alone? You think you could pull the trigger?”
Judging from the woman’s expression, Sam thought he could answer the second question.
“You’re not thinking straight,” the coach said. “Call the police.”
The woman slapped the air. “I
can’t
.”
“No police,” Sam agreed.
The coach picked up the courier envelope. There was nothing inside. No sender’s address. Sam Barrera’s office address had been typed.
“You refused police protection,” the coach said. “You knew Stirman was coming. Now he’s threatening Jem. And you won’t call the police. Why?”
“They won’t catch him,” the woman said. “Even if we told them he was here, even if they believed us, Stirman would vanish. He’d be back next month, next year, five years from now. I won’t live like that, knowing he’s out there. I won’t risk my son.”
The coach could probably sense there was more, just as Sam could. The woman, Sam remembered, had never been a good liar. It was one of her professional liabilities.
“What’s on the video?” the coach asked.
“Gerry Far’s execution,” Sam put in. “Stirman’s old lieutenant.”
“One of the men who testified against him,” the coach said.
Sam nodded. The young man was making him uncomfortable. He was a little too intelligent, a little too curious. He was the kind of detective who would dig for the sake of digging, who wouldn’t abide loose ends even when he was told to. If he’d worked for I-Tech, Sam decided, he would’ve been fired long ago—insubordination, breach of policy, something. Sam decided he would never let himself be alone with the coach. The
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