The Devil Went Down to Austin

by Rick Riordan

Page 8

 

  "Clydes a bit overprotective," Ruby apologized. "He runs the marina repair shop for me. Hes quite good with boat engines. "

  "I bet. They break, he shoots them. "

  "Which brings us back to the point," she said. "You shouldnt be here. "

  "You have claim to the property?"

  "I— No. This was always Jimmys place. I live on my boat. "

  "Then what were you looking for?"

  Her eyes traced the curve of the ceiling. "Now that Jimmys dead, your brother and I have to make some decisions. I wanted to get the company paperwork—documents we might need. "

  Her voice was as thin as drum skin. She was lying.

  "Matthew Pena," I said. "Hes been pressuring you to sell?"

  "If Matthew Pena were harassing me, it would be bullshit. Id ignore it. "

  "I didnt say harassing. "

  I could almost see her mental effort—reinforcing the facade, like a wall of loose blocks.

  "Theres nothing to tell. Nothing . . . provable. "

  "Pena offered to buy you out once before. You refused. "

  "You can thank your brother and Jimmy for that. "

  "The security problems started shortly thereafter. Your potential worth took a nosedive. Penas made a second offer—a substantially reduced offer—and when you hesitated, Jimmy died. "

  "It isnt like that," she insisted. "What youre implying— Look, I know Matthew Pena.

  Ive had dinner with him. Ive gone diving with him. He isnt a monster. "

  I told her about the shotgun case in Menlo Park a year ago. I told her about Penas girlfriend Adrienne, whod also gone diving with him.

  Rubys complexion looked like shed suddenly developed the flu. She stared at the empty gun on the kitchen counter. "Thats got to be other people, misconstruing the facts. Matthew would have no reason to kill anyone, especially not Jimmy. "

  Matthew, I thought. Firstname basis.

  "You talked to the police?" I asked.

  "Of course. "

  "They ask where you were the night Jimmy was killed?"

  "I was working late at the marina. Lots of people saw me. "

  "You mention Pena?"

  "The detective, Lopez, told me not to worry about that. He told me something else, Tres—theyve already matched Garretts gun to the bullet that killed Jimmy. "

  It was my turn to look sick. "When was this?"

  "Yesterday evening. "

  After Id talked with Lopez. I wondered if he really had a ballistics match, or if he had just been trying to press Ruby into making a statement that would hurt Garrett. I tried not to get angry, to remind myself that all homicide detectives played games like that.

  "You believe Garrett shot Jimmy?"

  "Of course not. " She was a good liar, Ill give her that.

  "Your friend Clyde Simms," I said. "Clyde said there was a bastard he wanted to kill months ago. I assume he was talking about Pena?"

  Her composure was just about reassembled now—all the blocks in place. She sat back, let the cat rub his face on her diamond ring. "You should leave now, Tres. I have a lot to do. "

  "Unless youve got legal right to kick me out," I said, "youre the one who should go. "

  She studied me, apparently decided the battle wasnt worth it. "Let me get a few things upstairs. "

  "Leave them," I said. "I like you emptyhanded. "

  She managed a sour smile. "You are related to Garrett, arent you? A real Southern gentleman. "

  "See you all at the funeral service?"

  "Wouldnt miss it. "

  Once shed left, I loaded a full clip into the Taurus, so it would be more of a challenge the next time somebody tried to use it on me. Then I set the gun back on the counter and climbed upstairs to the loft.

  Out the window, through the tree branches, I could see Ruby and Clyde walking down toward the lake. Clyde was speaking emphatically, offering Ruby his open palm, like he really wanted to give her a gift.

  I thought about what Garrett had said Friday night: Ruby McBride—somebody Jimmy and I knew from way back.

  I wondered how a woman like Ruby got involved with guys like Jimmy and Garrett, and how she got the loyalty of someone like Clyde Simms. I wondered what Clyde was capable of in the overprotective department.

  On Jimmys bed was a pink cardboard cake box, the lid open, the contents spilling out.

  It contained various memorabilia—love letters signed Ruby? postcards from Jimmys friends? dogeared photos, many of which included Garrett. The missing photos from the mantel were here, too—Jimmy and Garrett at the seawall? Jimmys mom, Clara Doebler. Why Ruby wouldve wanted these I had no idea, but divorce makes you weird. You get proprietary about odd things.

  There were no company records for Techsan.

  I dug to the bottom of the cake box, came up with an old denimcovered journal. I flipped through the entries quickly—all addressed to Jimmy, each signed by his mother.

  After reading a few lines, I realized the book was a lostchild diary.

  I sometimes advised my own clients to start such diaries, to keep their hopes up when children had been taken away in custody cases, or kidnapped by exspouses. You chronicle your daily life for your child, as a way of keeping them with you, keeping faith that one day they will be able to read your words. The first entry in Claras journal was dated 1963, about the time shed lost custody of Jimmy to the Doebler family trustees.

  I didnt remember the specifics of the court battle—only that shed had mental health problems. Jimmy had rarely talked about the custody case, at least to me, and the diary told me nothing. The entries seemed mundane—what Clara had done during the day, where shed eaten, what the weather was like, what birds shed seen in her backyard. The entries ended in mid1967, when Jimmy wouldve been about ten.

  The rest of the journal was blank. Somehow all those empty lined pages, yellowed with age, made a more pathetic statement than the five years Clara had managed to chronicle. I wondered how Jimmy had felt about the journal, and why Ruby would stick it in her take box.

  I went downstairs, rummaged through the roll top desk—standard bills, paperwork on the incorporation of Techsan, one folder neatly labelled Family.

  I checked Jimmys phone bills first. The police had apparently taken the most recent one, but Aprils statement was full of calls to other members of the Doebler clan—a lot of the same numbers Id called myself on Saturday. I recognized Faye DoeblerIngrams number. Garretts number a dozen times.

  I folded the list, set it aside.

  I skimmed through the Family folder and found photocopied requests for county records, listings from the Social Security death index, deeds, marriage certificates, birth certificates. Jimmy had been looking into his own familys past, but apparently hadnt been at it very long. Most of the requests were dated only a month ago, barely enough time for any bureaucracy to respond.

  I thought about what Jimmy had told me the night he died, about wanting to make amends with his family. Maybe the background search hed wanted me to do was simply that—family history. Still, something about the folder bothered me. I put it aside for later.

  Robert Johnson was circling my ankles, purring, no doubt asking where his new friends with the weapons had gone.

  Jimmys memorial was tonight. Garrett would be there. Ruby McBride would probably talk to him sometime today, let him know

  I was staying at the dome. Better to face him now, let him know I wasnt going to stay out of his problems.

  Either that, or I could make the call I was dreading to San Francisco.

  Robert Johnson looked up at me smugly, his eyes half closed. "Youre lucky," I told him. "You never have to visit your siblings. "

  CHAPTER 8

  Sunday at lunchtime, there shouldnt have been any rush hour heading into Austin from the lake, but I hit one anyway.

  It was fortyfive minutes before I pulled in front of Garretts apartment.

  The Carmen Miranda was parke
d by the stairs, which may or may not have meant Garrett was home. If ballistics had come back positive, that mightve been enough for Lopez to get an arrest warrant, start the indictment process, after which things would happen fast. I ran down all the possibilities I didnt like—all the things that couldve gone wrong since Id left Garrett on Friday afternoon. I hoped hed gotten himself a lawyer.

  I parked in the shade, sat with the engine idling, and thought about what to say if Garrett were home. Just checking in. Been indicted yet? Still in debt a few million?

  Want to grab a beer?

  I walked up the steps of The Friends.

  When I knocked at Garretts door, a womans muffled voice said, "Just a minute. "

  Even then, I didnt see it coming.

  I stood there stupidly as the door opened, the woman looking down at a fistful of bills, saying, "I dont have correct change. "

  And then she looked up.

  She was barefoot, dressed in khaki walking shorts, an army green tank top. Her skin was a rich honey colour, her hair long and glossy black.

  Some vestigial gland in my body started to work, dumping a few ccs of acid into my bloodstream—just enough to make every vein burn.

  "Hello, Tres," Maia Lee said. "Youre not the pizza man. "

  She wore no makeup, no jewellery. Her eyes glowed with that internal heat which makes her a formidable enemy, or friend. If she was at all ruffled to see me again, after nearly two years, she hid it superbly.

  "Okay, Ill bite," I managed. "Why are you in my brothers apartment?"

  "Nice to see you, too. "

  "Let me rephrase that. Where the hell is Garrett?"

  She stepped back, out of the doorway, motioned me inside.

  I brushed past her. Acid kept coursing around my circulatory system. My hands were sweating like an adolescents.

  Nobody was in the living room, just Dickhead the parrot up on his windowledge perch.

  Music was playing—Buffetts greatest hits, but set to Maias volume level, so soft, intimate, for Garretts place that it struck me as insulting.

  I walked through the kitchen, into the bedroom. No suitcase on the bed. No unpacked Maia clothes.

  Out on the shoeboxsized deck, Garrett was sitting in a patio chair, the tails of an XXL

  Hawaiian shirt melting around his waist, a John Deere gimme cap shading his eyes.

  Papers littered the deck around him. He had an open beer at his side, a laptop set up on a TV tray, a joint hanging off the corner of his mouth. Hunter S. Thompson does South Texas.

  "I see you made your calls," I told him.

  He missed a stroke on the keyboard, glared up at me. He spoke with the joint still in his mouth. "Im busy. Wait a minute. "

  He went back to typing—the way Garrett always types, with a vengeance, as if the keys needed to learn their lesson.

  I stepped to the railing, tried to put aside the appealing idea of throwing Garretts laptop off the balcony.

  Of course, I wouldnt have been the first to have that thought at The Friends. The alley below was littered with broken couches, smashed TVs, mounds of clothes still on hangers.

  Floorboards creaked behind me.

  Maia stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, pizza money still crumpled in one hand.

  The sunlight through the canopy of branches

  made her face and shoulders look like camouflage. I resented the fact that she looked even better than Id remembered.