Storm Runners Read Free Page B

later.”
    “Tomorrow? Same time. I’ll bring lunch, how’s that?”

4
     
     
    T hat evening, Dan Birch, Stromsoe’s good friend and former narco partner, arrived unannounced. It was the third time he’d come to the house on Fifty-second Street since Stromsoe had been released from UCI Medical Center. Birch and his wife and children had been guests here for the better part of twelve years. Birch now stood in the kitchen and surveyed Stromsoe with his usual heavy-browed glower.
    “You look bad,” he said.
    “I feel bad sometimes,” said Stromsoe.
    “What can I do?”
    “There’s nothing, Dan.”
    “I can put you to work when you’re ready.”
    Stromsoe nodded and tried to smile. “A one-eyed security guard?”
    Four years ago Birch had quit the Sheriff ’s Department and started his own security company. Thanks to an engaging personality and some family connections to Irvine high-tech companies, his Birch Security Solutions had billed $1.15 million in its first year, and tripled that number since. They did some of everything: residential and industrial security, patent and copyright protection, patrol, installations, and private investigations.
    Birch chuckled. “I can do better than that, Matt.”
    “Divorce work?”
    “We’ve got some interesting industrial espionage going down in Irvine. And some jerk-off at the med school selling cadaver parts, but the university can’t afford the scandal of busting him. We’re going to…dissuade him from further business.”
    “No cadaver parts, Dan.”
    “I understand. I shouldn’t have said that. What can I do to help? I’m trying here.”
    “Let me make you a drink. It’s only the Von’s brand. I’m trying to reduce my dependence on foreign vodka.”
    They drank late into the night, Stromsoe outpacing his friend roughly two to one. He laid off the painkiller as long as he could but by midnight the pins in his legs were killing him so he took more pills.
    “One for the road?” he asked Birch.
    “No.”
    Birch came over and knelt next to Stromsoe. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”
    “It’s temporary. Don’t worry.”
    “I’m so fucking sorry, Matt.”
    “I’ll get there,” he said, wherever there was.
    “Tavarez is an animal,” said Birch. “And Ofelia’s death wasn’t our fault.”
    “No,” said Stromsoe. “Not our fault at all.”
    A long silence lowered over them during which Stromsoe did not hear the waves breaking nearby. “Is there any way to get to him?” he asked.
    Birch’s eyes tracked behind his heavy brows. “Mike? In Orange County Jail? You might be able to bring some annoyance his way—get his privileges and exercise time cut back. You’d need to get a deputy or two on your side.”
    “I had something more substantial in mind.”
    “Such as what?”
    “Five minutes alone with him.”
    Birch stood, shaking his head. “The visitation setup is all wrong for that. Besides, the only one who can grant you a visit is Tavarez.”
    Stromsoe thought about five minutes with El Jefe.
    “Forget it, Matt. You kill him, you may as well just move right into his cell, put on his jumpsuit.”
     
     
     
    WHEN BIRCH HAD gone Stromsoe limped through the house with a big vodka in hand. He walked with his head down, focusing on the ice in his drink, and when he came into a room he lifted his head and looked around but then would have to close his eyes against the memories. Every cubic inch of space. Every object. Every molecule of every object, tied to Hallie and Billy. Their things. Their lives. Their life. It was impossible to endure.
    He stood swaying in the courtyard for a moment, watching thesliver of moon slip down then rise back into place over and over.
    His cell phone pulsed against his hip and Stromsoe slid it off, dropped it, and then knelt and picked it up.
    “The bomb was for you,” said Tavarez. “God put them there for reasons we don’t understand.”
    “You blew up a woman and a little boy.”
    “But you