The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(25)

"Yeah, well. You or your—what should I say, client or friend? How does this work, you being an attorney from out of state, and all?"

Maia didn't deign to answer. We both knew Lopez would've researched exactly how it worked.

I knew from past interstate cases with Maia, she would be able to handle one case in Texas as a professional courtesy from the state bar—pro bac vice—if it came to formal charges. Before charges, however, Maia's professional status in Texas, and thus the professional courtesy the police had to extend her, was questionable, at best.

"Whether it's client or friend," Maia told Lopez, "depends on your department."

He smiled. "Your friend, then. Mr. Navarre wants to explain things to me, maybe throw a little hard evidence my way, I'd be more than obliged."

The song ended. The Wicked Witch of the Tenth Pew gave Lopez a scowl. Probably she didn't even know Jimmy Doebler. Probably she came to all the Unitarian funerals just to get her dourness fix.

Lopez sat back, spread his fingers out on his knees. The back of his right hand was dimpled with pockmarks, the skin slightly puffy—like he'd been bitten by a snake, numerous times, many years ago. I hoped it had been an unpleasant experience.

The preacher came to the podium, fixed his glasses, and said it was time for a eulogy by one of Jimmy's oldest friends.

He called my brother's name and complete stillness fell over the room. Some of the mourners glanced back in our direction with cold stares. In the front row, W. B. Doebler cleared his throat.

Lopez whispered, "Go on, Mr. Navarre. Your moment to shine."

Garrett didn't move.

More heads started to turn.

Finally Maia said, "Come on. I'll go with you."

She scooted past me, took the back of Garrett's chair, began pushing him toward the front. I'd never seen Garrett allow anyone to push his chair. He considered it an egregious insult. Nevertheless, he sat still, intent, as Maia wheeled him toward the microphone.

In the pew behind me, someone murmured a question to a friend, something that ended with the word murder.

The friend's response was audible: "I were Garrett, I sure as hell wouldn't get up there and give no speech."

I turned. The guys behind me were a couple of innocuous looking Parrot Heads—standard flowery shirts, dayold beards. I'd probably met them before at one of Garrett's parties.

"If you were Garrett," I told them, "you wouldn't have kneecaps I could shoot off if you don't shut up."

I turned back around.

Lopez muttered, "Somebody without a sense of humour might take what you just said the wrong way, Navarre."

Garrett started his eulogy. Maia stood to one side for moral support.

"I know a guy at state ballistics," I told Lopez. "Department of Public Safety. Let me call him—get a second opinion on the projectile."

Lopez laughed quietly. "A second opinion. DPS has a six month turnaround, and you want to use them for a second opinion. Tell you what, you find me some reason to justify that—some damn good reason—then maybe. We go to court—and please God, if you have any leverage with Ms. Lee, assure her that would be a bad thing—then you can hire all the experts you want. As it stands—for the purposes of presenting this case to the DA? I'm afraid not."

Presenting the case to the DA.

"Matthew Pena," I said. "You investigate him?"

"We are not stupid, Tres. We have already been scolded by your friend Ms. Lee on that very point. Yes, Mr. Pena seems to be slightly less docile than your average maneating tiger. Yes, he is the subject of an open homicide investigation in San Francisco. He also has a solid alibi for the night in question. He was on the Internet."

I stared at him. "You're joking."

"He was in a video conference with clients, some of the AccuShield execs, back in Cupertino. Lasted into the wee hours. I've made calls. I've seen the computer logs. It checks out."

"This guy's a hightech mogul. You're going to accept the Internet as an alibi?"

"Welcome to the millennium, Navarre."

"There have to be ways logs could be faked, timed, dubbed, something."

Lopez smiled. "You're suggesting that AccuShield, a multibillion dollar corporation, is an accessory to the murder of a programmer? You think I should arrest the CEO, maybe? The entire board?"

"Wouldn't want to do that," I said. "That would mean bringing in the Feds. And you don't want to give up this murder investigation for anything, do you?"

His reaction wasn't much, just a little tightness in his jaw, but I'd succeeded in hitting a nerve.

Garrett kept talking about his parties with Jimmy, their road trips. Nothing about Techsan. Nothing about their many past arguments. Maia stood behind him, the silent sentinel. Ruby McBride was watching her with curiosity.

Then Garrett's voice stopped mideulogy. Another sudden hush fell over the chapel.

Garrett was staring at the front entrance, his note cards forgotten in his hands.

Matthew Pena and Dwight Hayes stood at the back of the aisle, looking for a place to sit.

Dwight Hayes didn't look much better than he had two hours ago. His offgreen tie was knotted so the skinny end was longer than the fat end.

Pena was dressed like an ontherise businessman, and I knew what the crowd would be thinking— Here's another of Jimmy's rich relatives. Then I glanced at W.B. Doebler, who was studying Matthew Pena with more than a little apprehension.