"How's that?" Kristina asked, looking back over the front seat at Tess, her eyes bright with excitement.
"We have to stop the parade."
Between the parade and the usual Saturday traffic, it took them twenty minutes to inch through Brackenridge Park once they left the freeway. Finally they reached La Casita, where Tess grabbed her running shoes and some jeans that fit, then checked on her all-but-abandoned child. Mrs. Nguyen and Esskay were watching the preparade coverage on one of the local stations and sharing a can of Pringles.
"Mrs. Nguyen—please, no more junk food. It's really not good for her."
"Oh, I only gave her one. Maybe two. We have a pizza coming." Esskay smirked at Tess.
She glanced out the windows. Broadway was bumper to bumper, and there was no place to park. "Can my friend leave his car in your lot—we probably can't get much closer to the parade route than we are here, and I don't need my space today."
"Sure thing, sure thing," she said, waving a vague hand, eyes still fixed on the empty street in front of the Alamo. "Chris Marrou said there are ten thousand people already downtown."
It was more than a mile up Broadway to the parade staging area and the sidewalks and streets were clogged with people, making it impossible to move quickly. By the time they found the staging ground and a parade worker showed them to the shaded underpass where Gus Sterne's silver Lincoln idled, it was twelve-thirty. Half an hour until the first marching band started down the street. Tess motioned to Kris and Rick to hang back—she didn't want Gus Sterne to know she had confided her suspicions in anyone—and walked over to the car.
Clay was in the backseat, reading a book. His father was nearby, in a knot of men who all looked like him, with their gray hair, florid faces, and navy blazers.
"What'd you do, pay God off?" one asked. "The weather couldn't be better, you son of a bitch."
"You son of a bitch," the others echoed, slapping hands and passing around a silver flask. Gus Sterne declined it with a shake of his head. He looked distracted and uneasy to Tess. It probably would make a man nervous, knowing two of his accomplices had been murdered in the past month.
Tess placed her hand over the pages of Clay's open book, to get his attention. "You have to stop this."
He looked up. "I couldn't stop this parade with Sam Houston at my side. Besides, what's the big deal? I know it's just one big ego trip for my dad, but no one ever died from a little self-aggrandizement."
"Emmie is out there somewhere along the route. When the car goes by, she's going to kill your father, then kill herself. Can you live with that?"
He stared at her as if she had spoken in another language, and he hadn't caught every word. "Emmie? But where—"
"We don't know. That's why our only hope is to stop the parade."
They had spoken in low tones, but Gus Sterne suddenly moved toward the car and grabbed Tess by the elbow. "What is this nonsense? Stop the parade, because Emmie has made another one of her silly threats? I won't have it. That girl has exacted her last measure of insanity on this family."
"It's not a silly threat, and you know it. Otherwise, why would you step up security at Sterne Foods, and meet with police about the route? Darden and Weeks have already died for their part in the Espejo Verde murders. Now it's your turn."
Tess didn't know what emotion filled Gus Sterne's face then, she only knew she had never seen anything like it. It was ugly, it was evil, and yet it was also weak and pathetic, the look of a man who was almost relieved to hear his terrible secret spoken aloud.
His voice, however, betrayed nothing. "Get away from me, and get away from my son, or I'll have you arrested," he said softly, so no one else could overhear. "You are interfering with a legal parade, for which there is a permit, and you are making demonstrably false, slanderous statements. Those who wish to protest this event have been given a small space at the corner of Broadway and Grayson. Join them if you like, but you're no longer welcome here. Javier—"
Javier, the gabby security guard who was to pilot the silver Lincoln through the parade, seized her by the arm.
"She'll kill herself, right in front of you," Tess called over her shoulder to Clay as Javier led her away. "But first she'll kill your father. It's awful to watch someone die. I know, I've seen it. To watch someone die and to know it's your fault, that you might have prevented it—I can't imagine living with that."
Javier was frankly dragging her now, up to the curb where Rick and Kristina waited.
"Crazy Yankee," he muttered, as if expecting Rick to commiserate with him, but he and Kristina were bent over the parade route from that morning's paper, marking the high buildings along the way. Their map was festooned with little red X's, far too many to canvass in the minutes they had left. Besides, once the parade started, police would keep the route clear and the sidewalks would be crowded with reviewing stands.
"There are four- and five-story buildings most of the way," Rick said. "All private businesses. You'd have to know someone to get in. Watching from those vantage points is considered a perk."
"Then again, the Sternes know everyone," Kris put in. "She might have found an old family friend who let her into a private party for old time's sake."
Tess looked at the map, but it meant nothing to her. If it had been Baltimore, she would have known every building and its history, she could have figured out some association between Emmie and the place she planned to die. Here, she was lost.
"Is there anything near the Alamo?" It was Clay, still holding his book. He was trying to act very nonchalant, as if they should have expected him all along. But his cheeks were bright red, his voice shaky with the momentousness of what he had done.
"If I'm not in the car, she's got no reason to jump, right?" he asked as they stared at him. "And if she's not going to jump, then maybe she won't try to hurt Dad, either."
"It's a long shot, but I'll take it," Tess said. "You've given us more of a chance than we had five minutes ago. If only we could figure out where she is. You know her better than anyone, Clay. Where would she be?"
He looked at the route. "The television cameras are set up across from the Alamo."
"But there's nothing there," Tess said. "She can't jump from the Alamo, it's not even two stories. And the hotels in that area are too far back, right? I don't know how good a shot she is—"
"Pretty good," Clay said. "Better than I am, as Dad will be the first to tell you."
"Still, she has to be as close as possible."
Tess bent over the map again. The parade went straight up Broadway, past the Morgue, then wound its way through downtown. The Morgue, where Emmie sang. The Morgue, which stood at the intersection of Broadway and McCullough, two streets that started their lives parallel and ended up perpendicular. A fat lady with her legs crossed at the ankles, Tess had said, and Emmie had agreed. You could even say it ain't over until the fat lady crosses her ankles.
She had confided in Tess as surely as she had confided in Crow.
"She's here," she said definitely, circling the Morgue. She glanced at her watch—twelve forty-five. "But even if I'm right, we barely have enough time to get there before the parade starts. I wonder if we can delay it, at least."
"You'd still need Dad's say-so," Clay said.
"I wasn't thinking of a legal delay," Tess said.
Rick threw up his hands. "I told you, I'm not risking disbarment for anyone. We know where she is, let's go to the cops."
"No!" Tess didn't want to think what might happen to Crow if the cops stormed the place. Emmie was too unstable, too unpredictable. "We can't be sure. Once the cops get involved, we lose all control. I might be wrong, I don't want this to be my only shot."
"Let me help," Kristina said eagerly. "After all, I can't be disbarred."
"Kris, I absolutely forbid you."
Kristina turned on him, wagged a finger in his face. "Get one thing straight—you're never going to tell me what to do, even when we're married, you sleazy shyster."
/> "Sleazy shyster! Sleazy shyster!" Rick stopped, his outrage momentarily forgotten. "I'm not going to marry a woman who speaks to me so disrespectfully, I can tell you that much."
"Shut up, both of you," Tess said. "You can fight later. Now, Kristina, see that motley group of picketing vegans over there? I bet all it would take is a little rhetoric to get them out of the official protest area and into the street."
"Kris—" Rick yelled in vain, for she was already running full-speed toward the vegans, screaming "Meat stinks!" She didn't even wait for their reaction, just grabbed a hotdog stand and began running with it down Broadway, the confused and outraged vendor in pursuit. Kris stopped long enough to douse him with his own ketchup and mustard bottles, then resumed running with the cart.
Now the vegans had caught on, and they were attacking other meat vendors—hurling turkey legs to the ground, overturning steaming vats of ground beef at the picadillo stand, throwing buns at the hapless hamburger server. Spectators who couldn't care less about the politics of the food chain began scooping up the fallen treats. As the cops converged on Kristina and a sighing Rick ran to her aid, Tess and Clay slipped across Broadway, to the relatively deserted street that ran parallel to the parade route.
"Do you really think she'll do it?" he asked.
"You know her better than I do, Clay. What do you think?"
He didn't answer. They were running almost full out, but it still took ten minutes to reach McCullough. This side street was full of vendors and overflow from the parade, and no one seemed to notice the woman with the braid and the man with the book slipping into the parking lot behind the Morgue, where the door to the loading dock, tightly bolted yesterday, was now ajar, and a white Toyota with Maryland plates was parked illegally. Great, her car would probably be towed before this was all over.
Clay started to follow her inside, but Tess stopped him. "If you're there, she can still do it, right? She wants to die in front of you. She doesn't need a parade to do that. Wait here, and if I don't come out in fifteen minutes, I want you to get a cop and come find me. Okay?"
"Okay," he said reluctantly. "But if I'm there, if I can talk to her—"
"We can't risk it, Clay. Now help me with Emmie—think—roof, or the top floor?"
He didn't need more than a second. "Top floor. On the roof, the news and traffic helicopters could spot her. She's smart enough to have thought that through."
Tess took the stairs to the fourth floor, treading as softly as possible. The Morgue's various music venues went only as high as the third floor, and this area appeared to be a storage room, virtually unrenovated. She walked through old boxes and piles of newspapers, moving toward what her ears told her was the Broadway side of the building. The crowd was loud and restless, possibly because the parade was now officially behind schedule. The noise would be deafening once things truly got under way. She wondered how much time Kristina had bought them.
She tried a series of doors along the corridor. The Lady or the Crow. No. No. No. What if she was wrong, after all? She had bet all the time they had on this one hunch. She might have bet Crow's life on it as well.
The last door she tried was in the northwest corner and when she entered, there was Emmie, kneeling over Crow, pressing her hand against his stomach. When she saw Tess in the doorway, she held her hands up as if to ward off a blow. She wore white gloves. Once-white gloves now covered with blood.
"I'm so sorry." Emmie was almost babbling. "I wouldn't have hurt him, not for anything, you have to know that. I tried to tell you he was in trouble, but you were so slow to come. Why couldn't you come sooner?"
Tess pushed Emmie so hard that she hit the far wall, next to the room's only window. She knelt next to Crow and lifted his shirt. The wound was narrow, but deep, and he was losing blood at a sickeningly rapid rate. She took off his shirt and used it as a compress.
"You'll be fine," she said, hoping it was true. She should get her gun out of her knapsack, hold it on Emmie, so she wouldn't come at both of them with the knife. Tess looked around the room and saw the long blade lying on the floor, just a few feet from her. She couldn't get to it without leaving Crow's side. Meanwhile, Emmie seemed in no hurry to pick up the weapon and resume her attack. She sat on the floor, legs spread out like a Raggedy Ann doll, babbling to herself.
"You should have come sooner. I wouldn't have hurt him for anything."
"Go," Crow said, his voice weak. "Live."
"Not for anything," Emmie repeated in a low moan. "Never, never, never." She beat on her skirt, as if trying to put out flames, but succeeded only in leaving her own bloody handprints behind. She was dressed like a princess, or a little girl's idea of a princess, in a long gauzy skirt over a pink leotard and leggings, her feet in flat ballet slippers. Those white gloves. "I never wanted him to be hurt."
Tess felt the pulse at Crow's neck. It wasn't strong, but it was steady. There was some hope. "Then why did you?"
"I didn't," she wailed, crouching in the corner like some strange animal. "But he said—and I promised, and I keep my promises, I always keep my promises. He was the one who broke his promise. He said no one would be hurt. Only bad people, he said. Only bad people, who deserved what they got."
The door opened, and Clay stumbled in, a police officer at his side. Good for him, he hadn't waited the prescribed fifteen minutes. They would need a cop to get an ambulance through the crowds, to get Crow the help he needed. The parade was starting, she could hear the strains of a marching band, blasting out something that sounded like "I've Been Working on the Railroad." She looked up hopefully into the face of the cop with the rifle on his hip.
Steve Villanueve took off his dark glasses.
"Don't feel bad, Tess," he said. "You weren't the only one who never stopped to think that Pilar Rodriguez had a family, too. Or that there was someone who loved her enough to avenge her death."
Chapter 29
"Pilar Rodriguez was my family's cook," Clay said stupidly. Tess noticed he was still holding his book, a finger at his place, as if he might have time to finish a chapter or two before Steve killed all of them.
"Pilar Rodriguez was my grandmother." Steve used the rifle's long barrel to prod Clay into the corner where Tess crouched, her hand still bearing down hard on Crow's wound. The door was less than fifteen feet away on a diagonal, Tess judged. If she or Clay ran, they might make it before Steve got off a shot. But she couldn't leave Crow, and Clay seemed to be in a trance.
As did Emmie, who couldn't stop staring at her cousin. She chewed a knuckle, eyes wide, her back pressed so hard against the wall that she might have been nailed to it. It had probably been a year since she was this near to him, since he had been close enough for her to touch, to gaze into the shadowed eyes so like hers.
In a room full of people, Tess was clearly on her own.
"You did fool me," she told Steve. "I thought you were an overeager rookie, trying to win points with the boss. But you were miles ahead of Guzman."
He nodded curtly, too distracted by the events swirling around him to pay much heed to her fake praise, much less be taken in by it. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his round face had a flushed, feverish quality. He had looked like that when they were running together. Yet this day was cool, and the little room, away from direct sunlight, was cooler still.
"Pilar Rodriguez," Tess said, musing aloud. "No, I never gave much thought to her. ‘The cook.' That's what Guzman, everyone, always called her. The cook."
"As if she were nothing," Steve said. "As if she weren't a person, too."
He was still looking out the window. He would have a very precise plan, Tess knew. He had probably written it down, gone over every possible scenario, then committed it all to memory. Tess suddenly realized he was the one who had put the gun beneath Crow's bed, left his T-shirt at Espejo Verde, hoping to be rid of him before today. He was that careful. He was so careful that any disruption, any unexpected contingency, would throw him off his stride. How flustered he had been
in the park that day, when she had seen through him. Well, almost seen through him. Crow's appearance today would have kicked up the first stone in his path. Now here were Tess and Clay. Everything was falling apart.
"I don't remember her," Clay murmured. "I know her name, of course, but I don't remember her."
"I do," Emmie said. "She smelled like vanilla. She was the one who called me Dutch."
"She wasn't yours to remember," Steve said. "She was your employee. She cooked your meals, she took care of you, so she would have money for her own children and grandchildren. Money, but no time, because she worked six days a week, living in your house. She made the food that made Espejo Verde famous. So then she had two jobs. Before too long, she had a third job as well—babysitting, while Lollie Sterne fucked her best friend's husband in the little bedroom off the kitchen."
Steve leaned out the window, checking on the parade below. Even if anyone noticed him, it wouldn't matter. Why shouldn't a cop in a bullet-proof vest be watching the parade from such a vantage point? Why shouldn't he have a powerful rifle with a scope?
"I know that. We all know that," Tess said, although she wasn't sure what Clay knew, but he didn't seem surprised by anything he had heard so far. "Why so much talk? Go ahead, kill us. If my time is up, I don't want boredom to be the last thing I experience."
"You just wait," Steve muttered, still looking out the window. "You won't be bored much longer."
She looked down at Crow, now barely conscious. She thought she saw him try to jerk his chin toward Emmie, but that must be wishful thinking on her part. Was he trying to tell her something? Maybe she should be focusing on Emmie, instead of trying to fence with Steve. After all, one never knew what she might do.
"Why not jump right now, Emmie?" she asked with elaborate carelessness. "Clay's here. That's what really matters, isn't it? Him watching you die. Everything else—killing Darden and Weeks, killing Gus—is gravy. Go ahead and jump. Because it's not really about avenging the death of your mother, is it? It's about you. It was always all about you."
In Big Trouble Page 28