The Devil Went Down to Austin
An older, welldressed woman in the pew in front of us glanced back, frowning.
Maia said, "You did what, Tres?"
I whispered to Lopez, "Did it work?"
Lopez sighed. What's a cop to do? "I don't know how many other friends you've got who can pull favours for you in Austin, Mr. Navarre—"
"Tres," I insisted. "You're going to chew me out, call me Tres."
"—but this is not your home turf. You try your normal crap here—I shouldn't even bother warning you. You want something, you ask me."
"Ha," said Maia.
"Shah," said the woman in front of us.
Lopez handed across a manila folder, which Maia intercepted. She pulled out the papers, stared at Lopez. I could see the letterhead— Travis County Medical Examiner.
Jimmy Doebler's autopsy report.
"You're letting us read this?" Maia asked.
"Counsellor, you hurt me. You underestimate how much I would do to allay your suspicions. The things you and your friends could accomplish if you only asked."
We both stared at him.
He cracked a grin.
Maia shook her head in disgust, began to read.
The minister began his introductory spiel. He directed most of his comforting comments to Ruby, the grieving exwidow. At the other end of the pew, W.B. Doebler shifted uncomfortably, checking his fat gold watch.
Maia finished reading the autopsy report, slipped it to me.
"Lethal levels of amitriptyline?" she asked Lopez.
"It's Elavil," Lopez said. "An antidepressant. Doebler had been hospitalized for clinical depression about a year ago. He must've had some stash left."
Garrett was clutching his note cards, glaring intently ahead, trying not to look at the report in my hands.
A guy in a red Aloha shirt and black Levi's came to the podium with a guitar. He said he wanted to play "A Pirate Looks at 40," Jimmy's favourite song. We could all sing along.
I finished scanning the report, offered it to Garrett, who shook his head adamantly. I returned it to Lopez. "Why would Jimmy poison himself?"
Lopez gave me a look I couldn't quite read, but it was obvious the tox report bothered him.
"The levels in Doebler's blood," he said, "the amount he took, combined with the alcohol, would've sent him into a coma within thirty minutes. Another thing, there were no undigested pill casings in Doebler's stomach. Could mean he's a fast digester.
Could mean he didn't take the medicine in pill form."
The guy in the Aloha shirt kept murdering Jimmy's favourite song. The lady in the next pew kept giving us evil glances for talking.
"It was Doebler's medication," Maia said. "He was depressed."
"Sure," Lopez conceded. "On the other hand—now this is my sergeant talking, you understand, just speculation—if you wanted to kill somebody, what better way to make them docile than to OD them with their own medication? Especially, say, if you couldn't normally overpower this person."
Lopez glanced at Garrett, gave him a friendly smile. "What's your take on it?"
Maia said, "Ballistics."
Lopez snapped his fingers. "Yeah. Knew there was something else. The projectile was pretty mangled—soft bullet, a .380. It was, sorry to say, definitely a .380. Lands and grooves were pretty messed up, but ballistics couldn't rule out that it was fired from Mr.
Navarre's gun."
"And couldn't say for certain that it was," Maia pointed out.
Lopez paused. "You know, you're right, counsellor. I guess you could look at this as good news." He gave Garrett a thumbsup sign. "Good news, Mr. Navarre. Now all we have to do is find the other guy who was roaming the lake at 2:00 A.M. with a .380, and we got this case cracked."
"The shell casing," I said. "You recover it?"
Lopez looked irritated. "You should see the grass stains on the knees of my slacks. All us diligent deputies, rooting around in the dirt. Several acres later, we still have no casing."
"You know that's wrong," Maia said. "You claimed the shot was close range—someone inside the truck cab. And the casing is missing?"
"We looked hard, counsellor. Even sent a diver in the water. If it was anywhere, we would've found it."
"It's like the drugs," Maia said. "You're working this as a crime of passion, argument between friends—it doesn't fit. Somebody picked up that casing. That's the mark of a professional."
"Yeah, well. You or your—what should I say, client or friend? How does this work, you being an attorney from out of state, and all?"
Maia didn't deign to answer. We both knew Lopez would've researched exactly how it worked.
I knew from past interstate cases with Maia, she would be able to handle one case in Texas as a professional courtesy from the state bar—pro bac vice—if it came to formal charges. Before charges, however, Maia's professional status in Texas, and thus the professional courtesy the police had to extend her, was questionable, at best.
"Whether it's client or friend," Maia told Lopez, "depends on your department."
He smiled. "Your friend, then. Mr. Navarre wants to explain things to me, maybe throw a little hard evidence my way, I'd be more than obliged."
The song ended. The Wicked Witch of the Tenth Pew gave Lopez a scowl. Probably she didn't even know Jimmy Doebler. Probably she came to all the Unitarian funerals just to get her dourness fix.
Lopez sat back, spread his fingers out on his knees. The back of his right hand was dimpled with pockmarks, the skin slightly puffy—like he'd been bitten by a snake, numerous times, many years ago. I hoped it had been an unpleasant experience.
The preacher came to the podium, fixed his glasses, and said it was time for a eulogy by one of Jimmy's oldest friends.
Lopez whispered, "Go on, Mr. Navarre. Your moment to shine."
Garrett didn't move.
More heads started to turn.
Finally Maia said, "Come on. I'll go with you."
She scooted past me, took the back of Garrett's chair, began pushing him toward the front. I'd never seen Garrett allow anyone to push his chair. He considered it an egregious insult. Nevertheless, he sat still, intent, as Maia wheeled him toward the microphone.
In the pew behind me, someone murmured a question to a friend, something that ended with the word murder.
The friend's response was audible: "I were Garrett, I sure as hell wouldn't get up there and give no speech."
I turned. The guys behind me were a couple of innocuous looking Parrot Heads—standard flowery shirts, dayold beards. I'd probably met them before at one of Garrett's parties.
"If you were Garrett," I told them, "you wouldn't have kneecaps I could shoot off if you don't shut up."
I turned back around.
Lopez muttered, "Somebody without a sense of humour might take what you just said the wrong way, Navarre."
Garrett started his eulogy. Maia stood to one side for moral support.
"I know a guy at state ballistics," I told Lopez. "Department of Public Safety. Let me call him—get a second opinion on the projectile."
Lopez laughed quietly. "A second opinion. DPS has a six month turnaround, and you want to use them for a second opinion. Tell you what, you find me some reason to justify that—some damn good reason—then maybe. We go to court—and please God, if you have any leverage with Ms. Lee, assure her that would be a bad thing—then you can hire all the experts you want. As it stands—for the purposes of presenting this case to the DA? I'm afraid not."
Presenting the case to the DA.
"Matthew Pena," I said. "You investigate him?"
"We are not stupid, Tres. We have already been scolded by your friend Ms. Lee on that very point. Yes, Mr. Pena seems to be slightly less docile than your average maneating tiger. Yes, he is the subject of an open homicide investigation in San Francisco. He also has a solid alibi for the night in question. He was on the Internet."
I stared at him. "You're joking."
"He was in a video conference with clients, some of the AccuShield execs, back in Cupertino. Lasted into the wee hours. I've made calls. I've seen the computer logs. It checks out."
"This guy's a hightech mogul. You're going to accept the Internet as an alibi?"
"Welcome to the millennium, Navarre."
"There have to be ways logs could be faked, timed, dubbed, something."
Lopez smiled. "You're suggesting that AccuShield, a multibillion dollar corporation, is an accessory to the murder of a programmer? You think I should arrest the CEO, maybe? The entire board?"
"Wouldn't want to do that," I said. "That would mean bringing in the Feds. And you don't want to give up this murder investigation for anything, do you?"
His reaction wasn't much, just a little tightness in his jaw, but I'd succeeded in hitting a nerve.
Garrett kept talking about his parties with Jimmy, their road trips. Nothing about Techsan. Nothing about their many past arguments. Maia stood behind him, the silent sentinel. Ruby McBride was watching her with curiosity.
Then Garrett's voice stopped mideulogy. Another sudden hush fell over the chapel.
Garrett was staring at the front entrance, his note cards forgotten in his hands.
Matthew Pena and Dwight Hayes stood at the back of the aisle, looking for a place to sit.
Dwight Hayes didn't look much better than he had two hours ago. His offgreen tie was knotted so the skinny end was longer than the fat end.
Pena was dressed like an ontherise businessman, and I knew what the crowd would be thinking— Here's another of Jimmy's rich relatives. Then I glanced at W.B. Doebler, who was studying Matthew Pena with more than a little apprehension.
I wasn't sure what W.B.'s expression meant, but one thing was clear. He knew Pena.
Garrett's hesitation in the eulogy probably wasn't as long as I imagined.
Pena and Hayes found seats and sank out of sight behind some Parrot Heads.
Garrett continued talking.
I looked at Detective Lopez, but Lopez was no longer there. He was squeezing over the legs of five or six people to get out the far side of the pew. When he got to the exit he paused, glanced in Pena's direction, then at me.
I gave him a questioning look. He winked, then was gone. Probably gone to change into his Batman suit.
I tried to listen to the rest of Garrett's eulogy, but my eyes kept drifting to Maia Lee—the black shoulder straps of her dress, the way her hair curved around her ear. I looked away and happened to lock eyes with Ruby McBride, who smiled.
I refocused on Garrett.
When I looked back at Ruby a second later, she was still studying me—not in an unfriendly way. More like amused.
She turned back toward Garrett and kept that little smile on her face the whole time my brother was describing what a great fellow her murdered exhusband had been.
CHAPTER 11
"W.B.," I called.
He was three steps away from his white Infiniti, his Nokia in one hand, his alarm deactivator in the other.
Another ninety seconds—if I'd waited for Maia and Garrett, or pushed my way out of the chapel a little less rudely—W.B. would've been gone.