The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(18)

Her expression gave me nothing to feed on. It was calm, irritatingly professional.

"You could've at least—"

"What, Tres? Called? Garrett made it clear he did not want you involved. Frankly, I agreed with him."

Garrett kept clacking on the keyboard, pretending to ignore us.

Across the alley, on the secondstory deck of the frat house, a barechested Greek was drinking a beer. Perfect contentment—a lazy Sunday afternoon, one more party day before summer school started. I wondered if I could bean him from here with a rock.

Instead I reached down, scooped up some of the papers around Garrett's seat.

There was a list of the companies who were betatesting Techsan's security software.

Co_op.com, Austin's online health food store. Ticket Time, the local event promoter.

Four others I'd never heard of—a West Texas petroleum company, two Internet financial service groups, a boating supply retailer—no doubt Ruby McBride's contri

bution to their client list. There was a list of reported security leaks, about a dozen in all, most from the petroleum company and the two financial service groups, the companies with the biggest budgets and

the most to lose. One letter from the CEO of the oil company formally cancelled the contract with Techsan and warned of a suit. The letter cited three different confidential inhouse reports that had been posted anonymously to a Usenet group—a leak that could cost the company millions. There were more letters like that—horror stories from the betatesters, irate emails, threats to sue Techsan out of existence. There was also one fax to Garrett, on Matthew Pena's letterhead, dated April 1, just before all hell broke loose. The fax read, Look forward to doing business with you. —M. An Austin number was written underneath.

I stared at the M. for a long time.

Garrett finally slammed the top of the keyboard shut. He took the joint out of his mouth, smushed it against the back of the monitor.

Maia said, "I guess that means no luck."

"There's nothing else I can try from here. I need to get to the office."

"You go through a lot of laptops?" I asked.

Garrett glowered at me. "Ruby insists on a meeting tonight. She's scared—wants to sell out. I've got one afternoon to find something— some proof that we can isolate the problem."

"Can you trace the leaked documents?" I asked. "Figure out where they came from?"

"You don't think I've thought of that, little bro? I'd have to have permission from the betatest companies—get full access to their servers. The ones that were most affected are suing our asses. They aren't letting me anywhere near their machines."

"Can you get somebody to help you look? Ruby?" "No."

"The police?"

"Hell no."

I held up the fax from Matthew Pena. "Any more love notes lying around?"

Garrett looked at the fax like he wanted to set it on fire. "You're starting your class tomorrow. I hope that's the only reason you're here—you need a place to stay."

"But you've already got company."

Maia stared at me stonily.

Garrett set aside his computer, brushed the ashes off the cover. "She's staying at the Driskill, little bro. Don't be rude."

"Let me guess," I said. "Matthew Pena's staying there, too."

Maia raised her eyebrows. "What makes you so sure?"

"You'll crowd him. Give him no room to breathe. Try to redirect the police investigation toward him. That's your plan, isn't it?"

"You assume a lot."

"You wouldn't come down here to defend Garrett. You're an offensive player.

Something turned you against Pena. It's Pena you're after."

Three seconds of silence. "Tres, do us both a favour. Leave now."

It was the first break in her coldness—when she said the word favour. It wasn't much, nothing I would've caught had I not known her for a decade. Just the slightest indication that she wanted me gone for more reasons than one.

I folded Pena's fax. "I can't sit this out, Garrett."

"You and the goddamn ranch."

"It's more than that."

He stared past the balcony railing, like he was taking aim at something a long way off.

He didn't reply.

After a moment, Maia pointed at me, then pointed inside.

Reluctantly, I followed.

In the living room, Buffett was still singing his greatest hits. The parrot was bobbing his head, crooning the only words he knew—"dickhead," "noisy bastard," a few other cute obscenities.

"It would've been more helpful if you were the pizza guy," Maia told me. "I had nothing but peanuts on the plane, went straight from the airport to the homicide office."

"Pena," I said. "Is he as bad as he looks on paper?"

She made a boat out of her money. "Worse."

There were pale Vs on the tops of her feet, remnants of a suntan through flipflops. I wondered if she still spent Saturday afternoons in the Mission, seeking out the only oasis of sunshine in San Francisco.

"I have to turn the investigation away from Garrett," she said. "If the case goes to the DA the way it is . . ."