Rick Riordan: The Devil went down to Austin

The police tape made a satisfying sound as I ripped it off the railing on Jimmy's front steps.

I found his spare key behind the ceramic angel on the wall, unlocked the door.

The dome was dark. In the stale air of the closedup house, one smell hit me as completely wrong-a woman's perfume. Halston, maybe. A faint trace.

"Gas company," I called. "Ma'am?"

No answer.

There'd been no other cars on the property. Maybe the scent had been trapped here since Travis County did the crime scene, two days ago. A reporter or detective could've brushed against the door frame. Still-the place had a presence, like it was holding its breath.

I put Robert Johnson's cage down and let him out. He padded his way up to the canvas sofas, sniffed the fringed edge of the Oriental rug, looked at me.

"Just for a few weeks," I said. "We can do anything for a few weeks, right?"

He did not give me a rousing huzzah.

Morning sun filtered down from the skylights, making stripes across the railing of the sleeping loft above. The stovehood fluorescent flickered. I went around the ground floor and turned on every light I could find.

On the fireplace mantel, some of Jimmy's photos were missing. His roll top desk was open. Bills and receipts were scattered across the coffee table-the work of deputies not worried about leaving a mess.

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

"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.