The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(48)

Her eyes got very wide. "No, no. Mr. Pena would kill me. 55555. How could you forget that?"

I slapped my head. "And here I am trying to remember—jeez. Thanks ..."

"Krystal," she offered.

Aha. The famous Krystal.

I pointed to my chest. "Tres. Guess this means I have to haul that stuff out after all."

"Guess so."

"Friday yet?" I asked.

She laughed.

I went back to the employee entrance, smiled at Maia, and let us in.

The door opened into the network centre—a walkin closet with a blinking hub, splays of cabling, backup units for the software.

The next door opened into the main work area.

It was big enough to play soccer in—cool, dark, nearly empty. Low ceilings, fluorescent lights, chocolate brown dividers breaking the room into cubicles. The fact that Garrett and his partners had

leased such a large space told me a lot about their early optimism, and their acute lack of business acumen.

A young Latina was hunched over a glowing screen, quietly clacking at a keyboard. A few more cubicles down, two Anglo guys in their twenties were leaning over another guy, looking at something on his computer screen. All three of them had dyed purplish black hair, cut like halfeaten artichokes. They wore gold and red AccuShield Tshirts, oversized khakis, love beads. DVD players were clipped to their belts, headphones around their necks.

The only other people in the room were packing up their boxes—Techsan's dazed temporary employees, learning what temporary means.

On the far wall, shadows moved behind frosted glass windows of a conference room.

Maia gestured in that direction. I was about to follow when my brother wheeled himself out from behind a cubicle at the far end of the room, dumped some books into a cardboard box.

"Garrett," I called.

He watched us approach as if each of our steps inflicted a small amount of pain in his right eye. "You trying to make things worse, little bro?"

His cubicle was a corner spot, the window behind him looking out over live oaks and the basketball court and rolling hills. Through the heavily tinted glass, the scene looked like a winter evening. Not an executive office, but a definite step up from Garrett's old box at RNI.

His bookshelf held a potted fern in an advanced stage of mummification, several tomes on C++ Visual Basic and Java, and a careful lineup of Chinese bronze warriors. He'd stuck his carving knife in the side of his cubicle wall, impaling this morning's news— AccuShield to Buy Out Troubled Techsan.

I pointed toward the conference room door. "Pena in there?"

"With the Securities and Exchange guys. Picking over my carcass."

A few cubicles down, the young dudes with the artichoke hairdos were laughing, trying different commands on the keyboard. One of the guys glanced toward Garrett, then back at the monitor.

"Screenheads," Garrett mumbled. "They should just upload themselves and get it over with."

Garrett went back to packing. He was sorting through computer manuals, throwing the keepers in his box. When he found one he didn't need, he took out a permanent Sharpie, wrote PENA SUCKS! on it, threw it back on the desk.

Maia pulled up a chair. "We need to go see Lopez today, Garrett. I know you don't want to, but we've got to make him think we're cooperating."

"That's me." Garrett tossed another manual into the box. "Mr. Cooperation."

"We have some leads." I appreciated Maia's we, appreciated that she was trying to put a positive spin on some pretty sketchy information.

She told him about our conversation with Faye Ingram, about the man from the past, Ewin Lowry, who had once threatened Clara. Maia mentioned that someone, possibly Pena himself, had dug into Jimmy's past, unsettled him by suggesting he had a missing sibling. She told him about the catfish on my doorstep.

"Mind games," she said. "But if nothing else, Lopez will be obliged to investigate—spend his time focusing on alternatives other than you."

Garrett didn't look reassured.

Across the room, more soft laughter from the artichoke heads. They were making comments about the Techsan program—wondering what moron had designed it.

I didn't want to, but I filled in the rest of the story for Garrett. I brought him up to speed on what Dwight had told Maia—how the software problems would be fixed quickly, how the late great Techsan might turn overnight into a billiondollar proposition.

Garrett picked one of his Chinese warriors, tossed it to me. "I told you it was a good program. You got what you wanted, little bro. Don't be so down."

His listlessness scared me more than any amount of anger. I almost wanted to hand him a Lorcin, tell him to start shooting. Almost.

"Ruby McBride," I said. "You've known her a lot longer than you let on. You two used to

. . . date?"

"Ancient history," Garrett told me. "I never would've agreed to work with her otherwise."

"That serious, huh?"

A young woman in sweats came toward us, a box of plants and keyboards in her arms.

One of the temps, probably, hoping to say goodbye. When she saw Garrett's expression, she hesitated, then did a quick retreat. Maybe she decided a final farewell wasn't so important after all.

"Lopez will use Ruby," Maia told Garrett. "If he can establish a motive for you killing Jimmy—jealousy, resentment, a jilted lover's revenge—he'll make the DA's day."