Rick Riordan - The Devil went down to Austin

"As I remember, you were at the lake that night, too."

"If you really thought I'd planted evidence, we wouldn't be here now."

He tried his cigarette, didn't seem to like the flavour much. "What I think, Jimmy's killer met him at the water that night. The killer was able to drug him-maybe a laced beer, some kind of drink. That meant spending some time together, talking in the truck for more than a few minutes. Drugs start to kick in, Jimmy starts to fade. Killer took a. 380, put the muzzle about two inches from Jimmy's head, and told him goodbye. It was intimate, Navarre. Like an old friend. You want to tell me Matthew Pena could pull that off, get that close to Jimmy Doebler?"

I looked at the lines of highway patrol cars.

The hell of it was, I agreed with Lopez. The setup of the crime was too personal.

I told Lopez about Jimmy's call to Dwight Hayes the week before he died. I told him about Ruby, the strong possibility that she'd help Matthew Pena sabotage her own company for a sellout.

Lopez slid his lighter into his pants pocket. "And she just happened to walk with you straight to the place where you just happened to find this casing."

"I wasn't implying-"

"Like hell you weren't," Lopez said. I could almost see the homicide detective gears turning in his head. "Sounds like I should pay another visit to Ms. McBride."

"The night Clara Doebler died," I said. "You were the reporting officer. You were there."

I told him about Maia and me visiting Faye DoeblerIngram- how she'd treated us to tea and homicide reports.

Lopez looked less than ecstatic.

"I thought I told you, Navarre. You need a report, ask me for it."

"I'm asking. Jimmy was killed at the same spot his mother died. What happened with Clara Doebler?"

He pulled himself up on the ledge of the loading dock. "Five years ago, the Doebler property was a good place for patrol cops to hang out. Before Jimmy built on it, a lot of deputies used it. You could sit there in your car and catch up on paperwork and be within striking distance for most calls in the David Twenty sector. One night I was finishing B shift, pulled in at the Doebler property about 2100. My partner's unit was a few miles south, and he was on the way to rendezvous with me. I was sitting there doing paperwork when I heard a shot from down the hill. First I figured it was nothing-just a hunter, or some kid screwing around-but I called it in, got out to investigate. There was this pickup truck by the water, this woman sitting on the tailgate with her back to me, and she was playing with something, like she was rolling a joint.

She was talking to herself, mumbling.

"I walked up around the side, called to her. She got startled and turned. It was Clara Doebler. She wasn't at her property much, but she'd called patrol a few times-poachers, drunk drivers running down her fence, that kind of stuff. So I knew who she was. She had a pistol next to her on the tailgate, and what she was fiddling with was pen and paper in her lap. She looked at me, kind of frightened, then picked up the gun. I drew my weapon, told her to put it down.

She gave me this kind of dazed look-could've shot me if she wanted, or forced me to shoot her-but instead she put the pistol in her mouth-"

Lopez made his hand into a gun, lowered his thumb. "My partner arrived six minutes later. I was not in good shape. The detectives told me the first shot was Ms. Doebler's test fire-getting up her nerve to do the real thing. When I walked up on her, she'd been writing her suicide note. The letter was to Jimmy. Said, Dearest son, I'm sorry. A few more lines, apologizing, what you could read through the blood."

I stayed quiet for a long minute. "Rough thing to see."

Lopez nodded. "I did my share of counselling."

"The Doebler family-W.B.'s father-covered up the suicide. He had it swept under the rug."

Vic made a popping sound with his lips. "I wasn't in homicide then. No one asked my opinion."

"But that's why Jimmy called you for information," I said. "You were there."

"Yes."

"That's why you want to find Jimmy's murderer so badly."

"Don't put too much stock in that, Navarre. You work patrol, you collect a lot of landmarks. You can't drive down the street anymore and see a row of houses. You see, 'that's where the kid was strangled,' 'that's where the drug deal went down.' Ms.

Doebler's death-it was bad. But it was only one time."

I couldn't tell if he'd really been able to get past the suicide as much as he claimed, but I got the feeling there was something else about it he wasn't telling me-something that still burned in his gut.

"W.B. has a deputy working security for him-guy named Engels. You wouldn't know anything about that."

"Not unusual. Lot of the guys work offhour jobs."

"You don't see a possible conflict of interest?"

Lopez reconstructed his usual smile. Whatever had been there, just below the surface, was submerged.

"Conflict of interest-you mean like a homicide detective doing a PI a favour? Naw, man-that shit never happens in this county. Come on, Navarre. Let's get your sorry ass inside. We've got a bullet to look at."

The window on the crime lab door was covered with fake stickon bullet holes.

Ballistics humour.

The guy who buzzed us in was around fortyfive, wearing jeans and a rumpled blue Tshirt, a laminated ID around his neck. He looked like he hadn't seen a disposable razor in eight weeks-his grizzled hair, beard, eyebrows, moustache, and sideburns all so copious it was impossible to tell where one crop of follicles stopped and the other started. I fancied you could peel one corner and rip the whole hair cover off in a single piece.

He chewed on something underneath the moustache, knit his eyebrows at Lopez.

"Which are you?"

"Vic Lopez, Travis County homicide."

The hairy man looked at me. "Then you're Navarre?"

"Ben Quarles?"

Quarles shook my hand. "Gene Schaeffer at SAPD vouched for you. Said you kept them supplied with some of their more humorous work."

"That Gene," I said. "He's a sucker for knockknock jokes."

Quarles looked at Lopez. "Told me Tres-TRES-I figured a Spanish guy."

Lopez patted my shoulder. "You know, we're trying. We keep feeding him frijoles. So far he ain't turned brown. Now if you don't mind, Ben-?"

Quarles' mouth twitched. "Come on in, gentlemen."

Our host walked as if someone had shot him in both feet. He led us down a narrow corridor, past a couple of offices to a big metal door. He swiped his security card across the lock.

The room inside looked like a Branch Davidian garage salepegboard walls hung floor to ceiling with weapons, all tagged, arranged by size from tiny. 22s on the left to rocket launchers on the right. In the back corner was an umbrella stand full of swords and tire irons and baseball bats.

Quarles picked a small black and silver handgun off the wall. "Your suspect's Lorcin.

Came in about an hour ago."

My stomach went cold just looking at it. I hated the thing- hated the fact Garrett had been stupid enough to buy it. I wanted it obliterated, melted down, ground into rebar.

Then I looked around the room at the two hundred, maybe three hundred other weapons-each the last stage prop in someone's life. Each had been cleaned, sanitized, impartially crossreferenced with a bright red tag. I was standing in a closetful of endings. Among them, Jimmy Doebler's murder was unremarkable.

Quarles turned to Lopez. "Projectile's in my office. You're saying it was fired from this, right?"

"Our man couldn't rule it out. You going to tell us different?"

Quarles' eyes crinkled. "Haven't testfired yet. You want to come?"

He took the gun and a box of. 380 ammo.

We followed him out of the lab, around the parking lot, to a building in back. The test range was a concrete hall with a lead curtained trap at the far end, a paper target holder overhead on a motorized track. At the near end was a folding table with several sets of ear protectors and a staple gun.