Which, in Tess's experience, made him a very dangerous man indeed.
Chapter 18
Esskay was behind the bullet-proof glass in La Casita's office, enjoying leftovers-it looked like she had the grease-soaked red and white remains of a KFC bucket in her mouth-while Mrs. Nguyen watched one of her Spanish-language soap operas.
"She cried," Mrs. Nguyen said sheepishly. Tess assumed she was referring to some character on her soap opera, El Corazon de la Noche. But Mrs. Nguyen was nodding her head toward Esskay.
"Women complained, so I had to do something. Very strange, this dog. Doesn't make a bow-wow sound. Sounds more like someone in pain." She did such a good imitation of Esskay's plaintive howl that the dog looked up, puzzled and intrigued. "Everyone complained, up and down the block. Man at the antiques store, and people at used bookstore, too."
"Good job, Esskay," Tess said. "In a motel full of hookers, you're the one who gets busted for being too noisy."
"Not hooker motel," Mrs. Nguyen corrected swiftly. "Businesswomen. Like you."
Tess started to object, but Mrs. Nguyen had a point. After all, she was working out of a room at La Casita, charging hourly rates. And providing her clients with far less satisfaction.
"If you like her company, feel free to let her out of the room anytime," she told Mrs. Nguyen. "In fact, you can baby-sit her this evening. I've got to drive over to this house in Olmos Park, on Hermosa. You know the neighborhood?"
Mrs. Nguyen nodded her head in vigorous approval. "Rich."
"Gated?" That would be a bitch and a half.
"No, no gates. But rich. Very rich."
"Are the streets busy? Is there a lot of traffic?"
Mrs. Nguyen thought about this. "The street that goes straight through is very busy, but lots of the streets go round and round, go nowhere. Hermosa is one of those, not so busy."
In other words, an impossible place to do surveillance, especially in a twelve-year-old Toyota with out-of-state tags. Tess sighed. Even in a nice car, it was difficult to keep vigil in a residential area. Rich people were quick to call the cops at the sight of anything out of the ordinary. She would have to think of some other way to watch the Sternes' house for evidence of Emmie.
Not that she was particularly confident she would find her at the Sternes'. It was just the only place she could think of to look. Because when you really were in big trouble-big-time, get-a-lawyer, warm-up-the-electric-chair type trouble-the past would be forgiven, family feuds forgotten.
Crow's in that kind of trouble, some second-guessing voice in her head taunted her, and he's still keeping his family at arm's length. But perhaps this was the proof that Crow didn't grasp just how much trouble he was in.
Mrs. Nguyen had turned her attention back to the television. Esskay appeared to be watching, too, studying the small figures moving across the screen with bright eyes and pricked ears, as if they were little Spanish-speaking rabbits.
"Do you understand Spanish?" Tess asked.
"A little."
"Then why not watch the ones in English?"
"Because this way, I can make up my own story. My stories much better than theirs. See, this girl-her name is Maria-she's having problems with her husband. She thinks he's not in love with her anymore. But what she don't know is, he lost all their money, and he don't want to tell her, so he works a second job, to make the money back. He away every night, so she thinks he has a girlfriend. She cries boo-hoo-hoo." Mrs. Nguyen's fake crying sounded a lot like her imitation of Esskay's barking. "And he thinks maybe he's not the father of her baby, because she act so funny."
One of La Casita's businesswomen came in just then, dressed for success in what appeared to be a halter made out of a shower curtain. She greeted Mrs. Nguyen in Spanish, Mrs. Nguyen answered in Vietnamese as she handed over the key. Mrs. Nguyen's life was more interesting than any soap opera in any language, Tess decided. Couldn't she see that? Probably not. No one ever sees the drama of his or her own life. In our own heads, we were all normal and rational, doing things that made sense. Even Emmie Stern.
San Antonio's October days were not only hotter than Baltimore's, they seemed to last longer, too. The city must be farther west in its respective time zone, surmised Tess, ever the geography dunce of West Baltimore Middle School. Tonight, that suited her purpose. It was still light when she parked her car at a Stop ‘n' Go on the boundary of Olmos Park, and the air had cooled a little. Perfect jogging weather. Too bad she had jumped rope and done fifty push-ups that morning, but she figured fast-walking wouldn't be that taxing-depending on how long she had to do it. It was the only way she could think of to make repeated passes by the Sterne home without drawing too much attention to herself. The house sat near a long, curving road called Contour Drive, and Mrs. Nguyen had told her people often jogged there.
"Woman killed there once, in front of her baby," she had warned Tess darkly. "It's true! Chris Marrou said. Take your gun." But Tess had decided packing a.38 while exercising would draw too much attention, even in Texas.
She walked east on Olmos Drive, then north toward Hermosa. The blocks were long and irregular here, it took more time than she would have liked, and ten minutes had gone by before she made her first pass by the house. In a neighborhood of big, beautiful houses, the Sterne home was perhaps the most impressive, a stone mansion with the kind of green lawn that only chemicals and a full-time gardener could have maintained. A new wing appeared to have been added fairly recently-the attached garage, connected to the house by an enclosed breezeway, was made of slightly different materials, although the addition blended in nicely. It also was constructed in such a way that one could come and go without being seen, Tess noticed. Emmie's little Nissan could be parked in there right now.
She had slowed down, almost stopped, as she examined the Sterne homestead. That wouldn't do. She sped up, turning onto Contour Drive.
She wondered if the police were ahead of her here, too, as they had been with Al Rojas and Marianna. The police wouldn't need to pretend to fast-walk through the neighborhood, they could walk straight up to the door, ring the bell and demand a search if they had any reason to believe that Emmie was there. If she was, wouldn't her uncle hand her over? After all, he was Mr. Good Citizen, so beloved that he was going to have his own parade. Emmie could run to him, but she probably couldn't count on hiding with him.
Unless he was willing to keep her under wraps until he had his big day. Maybe Gus Sterne didn't want to ride down Broadway in his Lincoln Continental with people whispering about the latest Sterne scandal. He wouldn't obstruct justice, but he might slow it down a little.
Tess was so caught up in her thoughts that she overshot the block where she needed to turn and circle back toward Hermosa. Now she was confused. This was no standard, rectangular grid, as she recalled from the map. Instead of doubling back, she continued on to the next street, Stanford-there was no discernible pattern to the names here-and headed up a street called El Prado, still lost enough in thought that she didn't immediately register the silver Lincoln.
The car was ahead of her and, of course, moving much faster. But there couldn't be two perfectly maintained silver Lincolns in the same neighborhood, not with a vanity license plate that read: BBQKNG. She kept her pace steady until it turned onto Hermosa, then decided to sprint. Runners often put on a burst of speed on at the end of their workouts, she reasoned, why not a fast-walker? She didn't think she looked too suspicious-until she' stopped abruptly at the edge of the Sternes' property, where she hoped to catch the garage door going up, and a glimpse of Emmie's car beyond it.