by Rick Riordan
I put my suitcase on the kitchen counter and brought out the hightech artillery-cell phone, caller ID unit, Macintosh laptop, VOXactivated audio recorder, shotgun mic, digital camera. None of it was mine, of course. It was agency equipment. But when one's boss is in Greece for a month, one gets lax about signout procedures.
Last I pulled out Erainya's Taurus PT99
It was a Brazilian 9 mm. parabellum, about eight inches long, thirtyfive ounces, Erainya's least favourite backup piece. The size made it too unwieldy for her, but it fit well in my hand. All blued steel-match grade barrel, checkered grip. A nice reliable gun, as guns go.
Erainya had offered it to me a dozen times. Each time I'd refused. I don't believe in guns for PI work. You carry a gun, you will eventually convince yourself you have to use it.
Which did not explain why I'd brought it.
Probably the same muse that told me staying in a dead man's house would be an insightful experience.
I put the Taurus on the kitchen counter, next to Jimmy's blender. I told myself the gun would stay there-unloaded, unused.
Robert Johnson was amusing himself under the sofa. Garrett had never come to claim his sleeping bag, and Robert Johnson was on his back, pawing the down and nylon folds that were slipping off the edge. He clawed and chewed at the enemy until the bag came down on top of him and he had to do a 180degree flipandrun manoeuvre to get away. He leapt up onto the opposite couch, gave me a nonchalant stare. I meant to do that.
"You're the king," I told him. "Hold down the fort for a minute, will you?"
I went outside to get a second load from the truck-my other suitcase, some groceries, the cat dish.
When I came back inside with a dozen plastic H.E.B. bags hanging off my arms, I found that Robert Johnson had failed in his duties. He was now on the kitchen counter, ecstatically purring and mewing for the woman who was pointing Erainya's gun at me.
She was a tall redhead-elegantly cut white cotton pantsuit, hair swept back so it made a St. Louis Arch around her face. One of her eyebrows curved slightly higher than the other, giving her a quizzical look.
The smell of Halston was much stronger now.
She raised the muzzle of my Taurus. "This was extremely obliging of you."
"I have some apples in the bag. I can put one on my head, if you want."
She glanced up toward the sleeping loft. "Oh, Clyde?"
At the railing, a Viking appeared. He was about three hundred pounds' worth of Aryan-long hair and beard the colour of lemon sours, black leather pants, beefy arms and belly stuffed into a Tshirt emblazoned with the words JAP BIKES SUCK. He was holding a Bizon2, quaint little pistolmachine gun, just right for hunting rhinos.
"Great," I said, upbeat, friendly. "We can set up a crossfire. Mind if I put down my groceries?"
The redhead's eyes were set at a diagonal, mirroring the V of her nose and chin. The faint dusting of redbrown freckles matched her hair.
"I do mind," she decided. "I like your arms full, until you explain what you're doing in my husband's house."
"You're Ruby."
"And you're Garrett's little brother, obviously. You still owe me an answer."
"Obviously?"
To my knowledge, no one had ever pegged Garrett and me as brothers simply by looking at us. It was a point of pride.
The corner of Ruby's mouth crept up. "You've got the same eyes. Don't you think so, Clyde? Same eyes?"
The ladder creaked under Clyde's weight. He got halfway down, jumped the last five rungs. He pointed his gun lazily in my direction.
"Pictured him younger," he mused. "More like a snotnosed kid."
"You've been spending time with Garrett," I guessed. "Bandidos
MC?"
"Fuck no, man. Diablos."
"Your last name's Simms. Went on that Florida trip with Garrett last year."
Clyde grunted.
"Well," Ruby said. "Now that we've all made cordial, how about you tell us why you're here, Tres?"
"I'm moving in for a few weeks."
She arched the eyebrow a centimetre higher. "On whose invitation?"
I set my groceries on the floor.
"I told you-" she started.
I stepped in, grabbed her wrist, spun her so she was facing Clyde. Clyde raised his Bizon2 just in time to point it at Ruby's throat.
I applied a little pressure to her wrist. She dropped the Taurus.
"Bastard," she murmured.
Clyde shifted his weight.
"We're all friends," I suggested. "Lose the bazooka."
He hesitated.
"Come on. You want to explain to Garrett why you had to shoot his little brother?"
The line was a gamble. Clyde might've thought he could earn brownie points by shooting me. But he tossed the machine pistol onto the sofa.
I let Ruby go.
She smoothed her white pantsuit, glared at me. "You think I wouldn't have shot you? "
I picked up the Taurus, ejected the empty clip.
I'd known it wasn't loaded, but I checked the chamber anyway. There was a bullet in it.
I looked at Ruby.
She smiled.
The master detective accepts the Golden Oops Award.
I emptied the chamber, put the bullet and the gun next to Robert Johnson. "Where's your car?"
"We're on a lake," Clyde said. "There's a boat dock. Figure it out."
"You've been searching the house. What for?"
"How about we call 911?" Ruby suggested. "I can explain it to the police."
"Mr. Simms have that weapon registered?" I asked. "Be a toss up which of us the cops kick out."
Her face acquired a new hardness, a onemillimetrethick mask. "Clyde, why don't you wait outside?"
"Should've killed the bastard months ago," Clyde complained. "You and Garrett listened to me-"
Ruby put a finger lightly to his lips. "That's enough, Clyde. Thanks."
He flexed his paws impotently, snatched his Bizon2 from the sofa, and lumbered toward the front door-the frustrated berserker, going home to Mama.
On the counter, Robert Johnson nudged the Taurus lovingly. "Mrr?"
Ruby reached over, stroked his fur. Typical. I get guns pointed at me. The cat gets petted.
A gold and diamond wedding set sparkled on Ruby's ring finger. I tried to imagine Jimmy Doebler picking it out-standing in some chic jewellery salon in his blue jeans and tattered polo shirt, his face speckled with dried red clay. I tried to imagine him married to this woman, her designer ensembles hung up in the same closet with Jimmy's work clothes.
"Clyde's a bit overprotective," Ruby apologized. "He runs the marina repair shop for me. He's quite good with boat engines."
"I bet. They break, he shoots them."
"Which brings us back to the point," she said. "You shouldn't be here."
"You have claim to the property?"
"I- No. This was always Jimmy's place. I live on my boat."
"Then what were you looking for?"
Her eyes traced the curve of the ceiling. "Now that Jimmy's 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. "He's been pressuring you to sell?"
"If Matthew Pena were harassing me, it would be bullshit. I'd ignore it."
"I didn't say harassing."
I could almost see her mental effort-reinforcing the facade, like a wall of loose blocks.
"There's 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. Pena's made a second offer-a substantially reduced offer-and when you hesitated, Jimmy died."
"It isn't like that," she insisted. "What you're implying- Look, I know Matthew Pena.
&
nbsp; I've had dinner with him. I've gone diving with him. He isn't a monster."
I told her about the shotgun case in Menlo Park a year ago. I told her about Pena's girlfriend Adrienne, who'd also gone diving with him.
Ruby's complexion looked like she'd suddenly developed the flu. She stared at the empty gun on the kitchen counter. "That's 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-they've already matched Garrett's gun to the bullet that killed Jimmy."
It was my turn to look sick. "When was this?"
"Yesterday evening."
After I'd 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, I'll 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 you've got legal right to kick me out," I said, "you're the one who should go."
She studied me, apparently decided the battle wasn't 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, aren't you? A real Southern gentleman."
"See you all at the funeral service?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
Once she'd 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 Jimmy's bed was a pink cardboard cake box, the lid open, the contents spilling out.
It contained various memorabilia-love letters signed Ruby? postcards from Jimmy's friends? dogeared photos, many of which included Garrett. The missing photos from the mantel were here, too-Jimmy and Garrett at the seawall? Jimmy's mom, Clara Doebler. Why Ruby would've 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 Clara's journal was dated 1963, about the time she'd lost custody of Jimmy to the Doebler family trustees.
I didn't remember the specifics of the court battle-only that she'd 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 she'd eaten, what the weather was like, what birds she'd seen in her backyard. The entries ended in mid1967, when Jimmy would've 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 Jimmy's phone bills first. The police had apparently taken the most recent one, but April's statement was full of calls to other members of the Doebler clan-a lot of the same numbers I'd called myself on Saturday. I recognized Faye DoeblerIngram's number. Garrett's 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 family's past, but apparently hadn't 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 he'd 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.
Jimmy's 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 wasn't 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. "You're lucky," I told him. "You never have to visit your siblings."
CHAPTER 8
Sunday at lunchtime, there shouldn't 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 Garrett's apartment.
The Carmen Miranda was parked by the stairs, which may or may not have meant Garrett was home. If ballistics had come back positive, that might've 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 didn't like-all the things that could've gone wrong since I'd left Garrett on Friday afternoon. I hoped he'd 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 Garrett's door, a woman's muffled voice said, "Just a minute."
Even then, I didn't see it coming.
I stood there stupidly as the door opened, the woman looking down at a fistful of bills, saying, "I don't 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 cc's of acid into my bloodstream-just enough to make every vein burn.
"Hello, Tres," Maia Lee said. "You're 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.
&nb
sp; "Okay, I'll bite," I managed. "Why are you in my brother's 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 adolescent's.
Nobody was in the living room, just Dickhead the parrot up on his windowledge perch.
Music was playing-Buffett's greatest hits, but set to Maia's volume level, so soft, intimate, for Garrett's 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. "I'm 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 Garrett's laptop off the balcony.
Of course, I wouldn't 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 I'd remembered.
She met my eyes-daring me to speak first.
"Where did we leave off?" I mused. "That's right-you were just telling me how much you hated visiting Texas."