The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(32)

"Bastard hit me," he said. "He hit me."

"Relax. You're in better company now."

Dwight was silent for a few hundred street lamps. "Is it true what Miss Lee said about—you and her?"

"I don't know. What did Miss Lee say?"

"Never mind," he decided.

We kept driving. Dwight directed me east on Highway 290.

"How long have you worked for Pena?" I asked.

His eyes were heavylidded from all the beer, irritated, as if I'd just woken him up.

"Forever. I'm his technical adviser."

"I take it you're not talking about scuba gear."

"I sniff out the most promising software startups. I look for market potential, point him in the right direction."

"Like the startup in Menlo Park. Like Techsan."

He looked at me, miserable. If guilt had a smell, it was permeating the truck.

"You've seen what happens to the people Pena attacks," I guessed. "The people you sicced him on. Over and over."

"You want to kick me out?" he asked. "It's okay."

Unlit subdivisions went by, closedup malls, empty fields.

"Maia Lee is right," I suggested. "She's a good person. You should think about talking with her, Dwight."

It was too dark to see his face.

"I thought Techsan would be different," he said. "There was no reason . . . Ruby and Matthew got along so well at first."

"Got along how, exactly?"

"Ruby was the one Matthew approached, back in March. She took him diving out on the lake. They seemed to like each other, came to some kind of agreement in principle.

I thought—the program was solid. The algorithms were excellent. I thought Matthew would make them a fair offer, make an easy buy."

"But your employer doesn't enjoy easy buys."

Another mile of darkness. Dwight pointed ahead to a blinking yellow light, told me to take that exit.

"You were with Pena the night Adrienne Selak drowned," I said. "I suppose you can't talk about that either."

"She was nice. She was good for Matthew. I don't think— He wouldn't have killed her.

No way."

"You don't think. I thought you saw Adrienne Selak fall. You made a statement on Pena's behalf."

"I meant— He never would have hurt her."

"You sure that's what you meant?"

Dwight let my question die in the air.

We ended up in an aging subdivision of northeast Austin, just south of 290. The houses were 1970s prefab, the lawns all gone to crabgrass. It was the kind of neighbourhood that looked best at night, which is exactly the time the local police would tell you not to go there.

Dwight drank his lukewarm beer, told me where to turn.

"The police talk to you about Jimmy Doebler?" I asked.

"A detective came to Pena's suite at the Driskill. That Lopez guy. Matthew was working late the night of Jimmy's murder— video conference."

"And you?"

"I was home. Too many goddamn witnesses."

Before I could ask what he meant, he directed me into the driveway of a greentrimmed twostory. Television light glowed behind curtained windows. A strip of duct tape ran up one cracked pane like a lightning bolt. The yard was dirt with a few sad clumps of dandelions and one sickly pecan tree filled with webworms, a tippedover tricycle on the sidewalk. A bangedup gray Honda sat next to the curb.

I'm not sure what I'd been expecting as a dropoff point, but this wasn't it.

"You've got a family?" I asked.

Dwight scowled. "You don't need to come in."

Then he opened the truck door and fell into the driveway.

I got out my side and came around to help.

Dwight was cursing the pavement.

"Should've warned you about that first step," I apologized.

"I'm fine," he snapped.

He pushed my hand away, stumbled to his feet. I followed him to the front door.

I heard children before we even got to the porch. A girl and a boy were yelling. Feet stomped. Porcelain crashed and a woman's limp voice escalated over the noise: "No, no, no."

Dwight turned toward me. "I'm okay now."

Then the door opened and a grinning Latino boy about eight said, "Mr. Hayes, tell her to stop hitting me!"

A younger AfricanAmerican girl pounced on the boy in a flurry of small fists. Both children yelled, did a oneeighty, and raced up the green shagcarpeted stairwell that faced the front door. Their thumping feet on the poorly constructed steps sounded like mallets on a cardboard box.

Dwight took a deep breath. Then he plunged into the house like he was entering the first circle of hell. He followed the children up the stairs.

"Dwight?" a woman's voice called after him. "Are you hurt, son?"

Dwight got to the top and turned the corner. He yelled, "Get the hell out!"

The Latino boy and his nemesis, the little girl, came rushing down the stairs, grinning, and disappeared into a room on the right.

The woman's voice said, "Chris, Amanda, no, no, no."

Despite everything I'd ever been warned about highrisk entries, I stepped inside.