Rick Riordan - The Devil went down to Austin

W.B. scowled at the book. "Where exactly-"

"It gets better." I flipped back in the book several pages. "January 10, IP on, Mr.

Doebler, McCormick amp; Kuleto's. Matthew Pena blocked off a whole evening for dinner with you in January, months before he ever decided to move in on your cousin Jimmy's startup company. What's more, McCormick amp; Kuleto's is in San Francisco. You went to him. You still want me to leave?"

Doebler's cheeks flushed like handprints. He looked over at his friend with the silver shades. "Mr. Engels-advise me on the legality of stealing an executive's datebook.

This is still a crime in the United States, is it not?"

I recognized Engels now. He'd been Detective Lopez's driver last Saturday-the deputy who'd taken us to Garrett's apartment.

"Parttime security work, Deputy?" I asked. "Or is the Met Club bar on your patrol route?"

The ceiling fan circled above the bar, making the light flicker in Engels' sunglasses.

"Your call, Mr. Doebler," he said. "I can take him away."

The way he said it, I got the feeling Engels was receptive to more possibilities than simply driving me down to the station.

W.B. gave me an indulgent smile. "Mr. Engels is a valuable asset. He spent time in the SWAT unit, a few additional years as a firing range instructor. When he was returned to patrol-thanks to some unfortunate politics in the department-I was able to con vince him to spend his offhours working for me. I find his talents quite helpful."

"Don't blame you. If I met with Pena, I'd take a bodyguard, too."

W.B. rattled his ice cubes. A waiter appeared with a refill, then disappeared back into his little waiter cave behind the bar.

"I don't know what leverage you think that datebook buys you, Navarre," W.B. told me.

"But it buys you nothing. I make a lot of trips. I have dinner with a lot of businessmen."

"You're telling me it's a coincidence. Pena met with you in January, than again in April, just before he tried to buy out your cousin's company, and it's a coincidence."

"Mr. Pena emailed me last Christmas, said he had a proposition. I was coming to San Francisco on business anyway. Pena had a solid reputation, so I agreed to meet with him. Only at dinner did I find out Pena was operating under a misconception. He'd come across an article about Techsan and assumed Doebler Oil was backing Jimmy's startup. He had hoped to deal with me on the idea of a buyout. I told him I couldn't help, that Jimmy had no support from Doebler Oil. Pena apologized for taking my time.

We finished dinner. We shook hands. That was the end of it. When I invited him here to lunch in April, I was merely being courteous."

"If Doebler Oil was underwriting Jimmy," I said, "Techsan would've had plenty of financial help. They would've been difficult to take over. If you'd given Pena indications to that effect, he would've backed off, looked for an easier target. Instead, you gave Matthew Pena a green light to destroy your cousin."

W.B. slid his feet off the table, sat forward. "You sound like a man who's trying to find any theory to absolve his brother of murder. I understand that. But Jimmy didn't need my help to destroy himself, Mr. Navarre. He didn't need help antagonizing your brother, either."

"You could have called Pena, not the other way around."

"To what end?"

"Clara's branch of the family-they've always been an embarrassment."

W.B. put his drink down, pushed it away with one finger. "Mr. Navarre, the Doeblers have given endowments to half the charities in the county. We've been a cornerstone of Austin politics, business, law. The Doebler name means a great deal in this community. The family never desires to present a negative image. All our business dealings are strictly aboveboard."

"Straight from your company brochure," I guessed.

His face darkened. "When we have family problems, they are just that-family problems. We take care of them ourselves."

"Your father," I said. "When he was chairman, he took care of Clara very nicely-forced her to give up her first child, her lover, an unborn baby. He broke her spirit, shuffled her aside, and when she died, he bought her a nice obituary without that nasty word suicide in it. Talk about positive image."

W.B.'s nondescript handsomeness was coming undone. His cheeks were mottled with anger, his jaw muscles pulling his face out of symmetry. Strangely, he looked a lot more like Jimmy this way.

"My father took his duties seriously, and he did not tolerate disrespect. Aunt Clara flaunted her problems. She sought scandal. Jimmy wasn't any better-hopping trains like a bum, making pots, living in that ridiculous dome-"

"You're jealous."

"Don't be absurd."

"You resented your cousin. You would've resented him even more if, after all those years of squandering, Jimmy ended up a financial success. You wouldn't have been able to bear that, would you?"

W.B.'s eyes were every bit as cold and shiny as Engels' glasses.

"Isn't this your department, Deputy?" he said. "Removing pests?"

Engels slid off his stool, came to stand next to my shoulder.

"What were you trying to buy from the sheriff, W.B.?" I asked. "A coverup-following in your father's footsteps?"

"If I see you again, Mr. Navarre, if you ever show your face, I will not be merciful."

Engels said, "Come on."

We left W.B. at the coffee table, studying its goldembossed surface like it was a war map-one on which his forces held only the low ground.

Engels escorted me toward the elevator.

After nine or ten steps, I said, "How long in SWAT?"

Engels kept walking. "Three years."

"And now back to patrol. Must be hard to swallow."

The sunglasses told me nothing.

"Doebler's money can't make up for the demotion," I said. "What was it-you do something out of line? Fail the psych profiling?"

When we got to the elevator, Engels pressed the button. He watched the elevator numbers creep up.

"How much can he buy, Engels? Who else besides you?"

The elevator doors dinged, then opened.

"Right now," Engels said, "while we've been talking, I could've killed you five, maybe six times."

I stepped inside the elevator, smiled at Engels. "Missed opportunities. They suck, don't they?"

Those chrome lenses gave back my reflection as the doors slid shut.

Dwight Hayes was a natural.

Not only had he found my truck in the Met garage, he had discreetly parked right next to it. I walked around behind his Honda and came up on the open passenger'sside window.

Dwight was occupied looking at the F150, craning his neck, trying to see through the tinted glass of the back window.

"What are those?" he muttered. "Swords?"

"Yeah."

I guess he wasn't expecting an answer. He jumped so hard he bumped his head on the Honda's ceiling.

I said, "Hey."

He cut his eyes to either side, seemed to come to the conclusion he was cornered.

"I followed you here," he blurted.

"Really? You did that?"

He blushed. "When did you spot me?"

"About the time we left the entrance of the Techsan parking lot. Until then you were tailing me flawlessly."

He put his elbow on the window of the Honda, rubbed his forehead.

His face had the same slightly nauseated expression as yesterday. The colourfulness of his blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt didn't do anything to offset the morose poodleeyes, the chevrons of Band Aids patching cuts on his neck and forearms.

His floorboard was littered with cassette tapes-Lightnin' Hopkins, B.B. King, Fabulous Thunderbirds. Points for Dwight on the tasteometer.

On the passenger's seat was a yellow legal pad, a pen, half a pack of Hostess Snoballs. From the rearview mirror hung a small plastic Jesus, its arms spread like the Rio de Janeiro model. It seemed to be making some kind of pathetic promise-Some day, Dwight, you'll catch a fish this big.