The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(24)

"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 letterhead— Travis 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.

Could mean he didn't take the medicine in pill form."

The guy in the Aloha shirt kept murdering Jimmy's favourite song. The lady in the next pew kept giving us evil glances for talking.

"It was Doebler's medication," Maia said. "He was depressed."

"Sure," Lopez conceded. "On the other hand—now this is my sergeant talking, you understand, just speculation—if you wanted to kill somebody, what better way to make them docile than to OD them with their own medication? Especially, say, if you couldn't normally overpower this person."

Lopez glanced at Garrett, gave him a friendly smile. "What's your take on it?"

Maia said, "Ballistics."

Lopez snapped his fingers. "Yeah. Knew there was something else. The projectile was pretty mangled—soft bullet, a .380. It was, sorry to say, definitely a .380. Lands and grooves were pretty messed up, but ballistics couldn't rule out that it was fired from Mr.

Navarre's gun."

"And couldn't say for certain that it was," Maia pointed out.

Lopez paused. "You know, you're right, counsellor. I guess you could look at this as good news." He gave Garrett a thumbsup sign. "Good news, Mr. Navarre. Now all we have to do is find the other guy who was roaming the lake at 2:00 A.M. with a .380, and we got this case cracked."

"The shell casing," I said. "You recover it?"

Lopez looked irritated. "You should see the grass stains on the knees of my slacks. All us diligent deputies, rooting around in the dirt. Several acres later, we still have no casing."

"You know that's wrong," Maia said. "You claimed the shot was close range—someone inside the truck cab. And the casing is missing?"

"We looked hard, counsellor. Even sent a diver in the water. If it was anywhere, we would've found it."

"It's like the drugs," Maia said. "You're working this as a crime of passion, argument between friends—it doesn't fit. Somebody picked up that casing. That's the mark of a professional."