The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(27)

At the bar, Maia was having a heated discussion with Matthew Pena—a discussion she'd insisted I stay out of. Sitting on the stool beside her, Dwight Hayes was trying to peel the label off his beer bottle.

"Shouldn't leave without your date," I told Garrett. "Looks like she's still having fun."

Garrett grumbled.

Being down so low in the wheelchair, Garrett creates the illusion of an open space in a crowd. People swarm toward him, see him only at the last second, usually spill beer on his head. One of the tuxedoed gentlemen had almost made that mistake a few minutes ago.

"You're enjoying this," Garrett told me. "You want me punished."

"Just trying to figure out why your brother, who lives seventy five miles away, can't help, and your brother's exgirlfriend, who lives two thousand miles away, can."

"She's better than you," he said.

Leave it to my sibling to craft the most diplomatic response possible.

"She's prettier," he added. "And she knows Pena. She's dealt with him."

"And like you, she's already convinced Pena's the problem."

He glared at me. "You met him today. You don't think so?"

"The guy just tried to kill me once. That doesn't exactly set him apart."

Garrett grunted. "You wonder why I don't invite you up much."

Out on the back patio, Kinky launched into "Asshole from El Paso." Wedding guests and bar patrons milled around, jostling us. Ceiling fans circled lazily, kicking around the smells of chewing tobacco and sausage.

"How did you meet Ruby?" I asked.

Garrett turned his beer in a slow circle. "What does it matter?"

"Just wondering," I said. "If Pena was going to kill somebody at Techsan, if he was trying to force a deal, why kill Jimmy? Why not Ruby or you?"

"Thanks."

"I mean Jimmy seemed . . . harmless."

Garrett's face turned as bitter as the German beer. "Write that on his f**king gravestone, why don't you?"

He ripped his cork drink coaster in two, threw the halves on the table.

"I guess I didn't mean that," I said.

His eyes were our dad's eyes—steady, scolding, a slowburning fire that said, You best not lie to me, 'cause I know better.

I watched the soccer game playing in triplicate on the TVs above the bar.

Maia's conversation with Matthew Pena didn't appear to be getting any friendlier. The bartender put two margaritas on the rocks in front of her. I wondered if she planned on drinking them both.

"You were going to have to square things with her eventually," Garrett told me. "You know that, little bro."

"My brother the shrink."

"Tell me you're over Maia," he insisted. "Tell me there's been one time since you moved back to Texas you were really convinced. If you listened to me once in a while, dumbass—"

He stopped abruptly. Maia Lee was standing by us now, a margarita in each hand.

"Don't stop insulting him on my account."

She plopped into a chair, shoved the margaritas forward, spilling most of them. Her face was bright red from her encounter with Pena.

"Went that well, huh?" I asked.

Maia crossed her legs at the knee, tugged at the hem of her black linen funeral dress.

Her calves below the hemline were lean and smooth. I didn't notice them at all.

"You can't sell out to Pena," she told Garrett. "You can't give the bastard the pleasure."

The margarita wasn't bad. Cointreau. Probably Cuervo Gold. Maia had called it well.

Then again, I'd taught her.

I took another sip. "What did Pena do to you, Maia?"

Her eyes managed to look ferocious and serene at the same time. Predator cat eyes.

"He didn't do anything."

"Used to be, you had two rules. You didn't defend paedophiles, and you didn't defend anyone you knew in your heart was guilty of murder. Now you're telling me this guy—a guy you defended twice—could be a murderer."

Over at the bar, Dwight Hayes was now arguing with Pena. Pena looked amused—as if he was not used to hearing anything but yes from Dwight Hayes.

Maia spread her fingers on the table, waited long enough to count them. "Ronald Terrence, my wonderful boss. He gave me the job of representing Matthew Pena last year."

"The Menlo Park case," I said. "The guy who ate his shotgun."

She nodded. "It wasn't a hard assignment. There was evidence Pena had harassed the victim, but absolutely nothing to suggest foul play in the shooting itself."

"Harassing like how?"

"Pena sent the victim email threats, spiked them with a virus so they'd crash the victim's system. He made some taunting phone

calls. But the shooting was a suicide. In the end, the police couldn't touch Pena for it. I came away with the feeling that my client was a creep, but not a murderer. I could live with that. Most of my clients are creeps. Then in January, Terrence sent me down to see Pena again. This time it was a little tougher."

"Adrienne Selak."

Maia pressed her fingers on the table, made a silent piano chord. "One of Adrienne's friends came forward. She gave a statement that Pena was violent, that he had threatened Adrienne several times. Adrienne's family pushed the police hard, demanding he be charged. They told the press their daughter's death was no accident, she was a good swimmer, she never drank to excess. Plenty of witnesses on the boat saw Matthew and Adrienne arguing. There was no physical evidence, but the circumstantial case looked bad. Pena's attitude when I interviewed him—he seemed stunned, maybe even griefstricken. But I didn't know. I had my doubts."