The Devil Went Down to Austin (6 page)

I knew the cliff. I'd seen it in daylight, many times. I estimated a fiftyfoot drop, fortyfive degrees, until they hit the creek bed.

I smiled, thinking about that—the place where water touches your life. You have to confront it, sooner or later.

I knew there was an outside chance they hadn't died. But I also knew they would get no help. At least not soon. No one would think to look for them until morning, maybe longer.

Part of Providence is trust, isn't it? Magic thinking. Words said over and over again, "I wish they were dead." And now I trusted.

The snow helped cover my traces—what few there were.

I watched for media coverage. The police were anxious to dispel rumours of foul play.

Too much work for a sleepy county sheriff's department to construct a murder scenario when it was so obvious what had happened—an elderly couple drinking, unused to the icy roads, bad eyes and reflexes. Perhaps a deer had run in front of them. Or a dog. It had happened before.

Call it Providence.

Sometimes all you have to do is wave that arc of orange fire in the wrong direction, and the ones you love will follow it.

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 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.

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.