Rick Riordan - The Devil went down to Austin

Subject: women

She's intriguing.

Reminds me of Adrienne.

This one's apartment rises from the top of Potrero Hill, above the wine shop, between an Italian restaurant and an antiques store, on that cold stucco and asphalt hill that always smells of roasting coffee.

White inside-stark white. Huge windows. Hardwood floors. Not much else. You can stand at her windows at night-watch the fog pour into the valleys, the lights of downtown, the pearl necklace of the Bay Bridge. You can stand there in a thousand square feet of air and almost believe she's as cold as she lets on.

You have to look deep to find anything softer, anything interesting.

Her closet is a row of beige and white. Good brands, expensive fabrics-raw silk, pure linen. Running fingers through her wardrobe, you can just catch her scent-a perfume she wears too lightly to be perceptible on a single outfit.

In the back of her closet is a shoebox, fastened with rubber bands. Inside are her naturalization papers from 1969. She was ten years old, a cute kid, judging from the picture-but sad, looking like she was just hit and is trying real hard not to cry. There are five or six other photos-not enough for me to take one, unfortunately. Yellowing black and white shots-an old man in a traditional Asian robe. The writing on the back is in Chinese-at least I suppose that's what it was. A few other pictures of old people.

Then there's the photo of the house. I guess you could call it a house. It looks like something from Tijuana or Zaire-a box put together from old doors and corrugated tin, clinging to the side of a rubble mound as if it had just slid there from the top. No grass, just dirt-chickens pecking at rocks. A huge mulberry tree on a hill in the back-the only thing that looks healthy.

I memorized that photo. The old Chinese people didn't interest me. But places. Places are important.

I looked at the photo, then I looked at the apartment-the clean white walls, the glass.

I understood why it had to be perfect, how she must wake up at night and imagine she is six or seven years old-rocks under her straw mat, rain dripping through cracks in the tin roof. I felt close to her, thinking about that.

In her nightstand drawer, on the lefthand side, she keeps a gun-a Sig Sauer. I toyed with the idea of using that information, but no. The right path for her is too obvious, if it comes to that.

I remember sitting on her bed and thinking about Adrienne. This wasn't long after the night on the boat. I still had that small electric current inside, that sense that I'd played it close. Too close. And it had been wonderful.

I attract women like her-the ones who don't know when to stop.

"Yes," I wanted to tell her."I remember what it was like. I remember what happens when a woman steps into your life. And I will step into yours, instead."

I've never shared a quieter fortyminute drive.

We stopped by the Driskill long enough for Maia to change. I waited in the lobby, tried not to look too stunned when Maia appeared in black-a colour she never wore, and one that looked damn good on her.

Jimmy Doebler's memorial service was on Airport Boulevard at a small Unitarian church-a prefab BoxoGod wedged between a Taco Bell and a WhileUWait key shop.

I looked for the drivethru window on the church, didn't find one, and decided we'd have to park.

Inside, pews made a C around the altar. About forty people sat listening to the organist play her prelude-a mournful, highly spiritual rendition of "Cheeseburger in Paradise."

The crowd looked like what you'd expect at a funeral for a Parrot Head, as Buffett fans called themselves. There were scruffy men in jeans and Hawaiian shirts, ladies in tube tops and Indian print skirts-people who knew their way around a margarita machine.

One notable exception in the front row was W.B. Doebler-a blue pinstriped island in a sea of tropical prints. At the opposite end of the pew sat Ruby McBride in black pants and Vneck blouse, white linen jacket, pearl necklace.

Behind her sat her biker bodyguard, Clyde Simms. Clyde had forgotten his Bizon2 this evening, but his fashion statement still qualified as lethal force-a scarlet silk suit, black dress shirt, silver bola. His blond hair fanned out around his shoulders. The World Wrestling Federation goes to a wake.

Garrett sat beside a pew in the back, where his wheelchair wouldn't get in the way. He was holding note cards for his eulogy. I tried to remember the last time I'd seen him in a coat and tie.

Next to him, at the end of the pew, sat Detective Victor Lopez. Something told me that Garrett had not been the one to pick this seating arrangement.

Maia made a short hissing sound when she spotted Lopez.

"Detective," she said. "Would you mind moving-perhaps to a different sanctuary?"

Lopez grinned, scooted over. "That's okay, counsellor. Plenty of room."

We slipped into the pew-Maia next to Lopez, me next to Garrett. Four friendly mourners.

The lines in Garrett's face were deep, his eyes watery.

"You okay?" I asked.

He looked at me, bent his index cards. "Not the first adjective I'd pick. No."

Lopez reached across Maia's lap and tapped my knee. "Say hey, Mr. Navarre. We need to talk."

He wore jeans and a dress shirt and a beige summerweight jacket. His eyes were bloodshot, his chin shadowed in stubble. Either he hadn't been to sleep last night or he was trying to blend in with the Jimmy Doebler crowd. "You got somebody to call the medical examiner's office for you," he said. "That's a big naughty."

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 letterheadTravis 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.