The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(50)

He checked his watch—a stainless steel Tag Heuer, a diver's model. Three thousand dollars' worth of ticktock. "Perhaps you have time to waste, Mr. Navarre."

"Speaking of wasting time," I said, "thanks for the fish guts. Must've eaten up a chunk of your morning—what with hostile takeovers, lives to ruin. I'm flattered."

His face told me nothing. One of Pena's computers couldn't have spit out data as non sequitur any more quickly than he did. "You now have three minutes."

Maia Lee ran her finger along her lips like the barrel of a gun.

"We need to have our discussion again, Matthew—the one where we review the rules of polite society."

His eyes dimmed.

At least he wasn't a total fool. He'd learned to associate pain with Maia.

"You shouldn't have come here," he warned her. "Ron Terrence agrees with me—it isn't like you to be so unprofessional."

"You haven't seen unprofessional yet," she promised. "But keep talking. Tell me how your little high school lackeys out there—the ones who can't seem to find their way into the program—are going to solve Techsan's software problems in a couple of days."

It took Pena a good thirty seconds to remember to look condescending.

"Dwight Hayes has been talking to you," he decided. "No matter. Dwight's job was terminated last night, the moment he touched me. Whatever he says now can be dismissed as the rantings of a fired employee."

"I thought you two went way back," I said.

Pena stared at me, as if he didn't see my point. "Whatever Dwight told you, Mr.

Navarre, Techsan selfdestructed with no help from me. Like so many other startups, your brother and his friends didn't have the first clue how to bring their product to market. They should feel lucky I gave them as much as they got."

"They should grovel," I agreed. "And if they don't, they should be made to grovel."

"Your brother has enough troubles, Mr. Navarre. Let him pack his boxes. Wheel him home, plan your legal strategies. At least now he can pay his lawyer's bills once he sells his stock."

Maia leaned forward, picked a dried rose out of the Trash box. It crumpled in her fingers. "You've overextended this time, Matthew. Anticipation of the big money has made you sloppy. What did you tell me once?" she asked. "You like to find the fault lines, keep hammering in spikes until the target cracks apart? Maybe I'll try it with you, Matthew."

Pena's expression got close to real anger—almost as if he were human.

"Be careful how you talk, love," he said. "One phone call—your junior partnership at Terrence & Goldman goes into the shredder. Two phone calls, I can have you disbarred."

"Hard to use the phone, love," I said, "if the cord is wrapped around your neck."

Pena came around the table, slowly, and sat on the edge, leaning over me so our faces weren't more than two feet apart. His breath smelled of cardamom. I happened to see the depth gauge on his Tag Heuer, still logged to his last dive. Eightysix feet.

"Don't make this about Maia," he said. "She's good, Navarre, but she's not worth it."

I tried to concentrate on the fact that the recorder I'd placed under the table was running. It calmed me down sufficiently to avoid escorting Matthew Pena out his fourthfloor window.

Pena leaned back, satisfied. "It's been nice talking with you. And, Maia— If you ever change your mind, ever feel that you don't want to go down with the ship ..." He feigned an embarrassed smile. "But that's a bad metaphor. Still terrified of diving, aren't you? A shame. I'd love to get you under the water."

"Shut up, Pena," I warned.

He laughed. "Oh, but this Maia Lee. Inscrutable Maia who was put on earth to protect people like me. She never shows her fault lines, much as I'd like to see them. Where are they, Tres? I suspect you put a few in her yourself."

Maia Lee pushed her chair back, got up gracefully.

Her snap kick caught Matthew Pena in the mouth, sent him backward over the table.

Before I could do anything—assuming I'd wanted to—Maia had collected Pena from the carpet, put him in an armlock, and shoved him against the empty bookshelf.

"First rule of polite society," she said. "Never annoy Maia Lee."

She spun him around, slammed him against the corner of the table—his groin at just the wrong level.

"Second rule of polite society. Never. Annoy. Maia. Lee."

She pulled him off the table—Pena doubled over in pain—and bowled him into the bookshelf, which being empty, peeled away from the wall and fell, the top whamming against the table so it made Matthew a tidy little office furniture tent.

"Third rule," Maia said, catching her breath now. "Figure it out."

She collected her purse, tugged at my arm to bring me out of temporary paralysis, and we left Matthew Pena to his busy schedule.

In the main work area, people were standing up at their cubicles, all looking in our direction—like a prairie dog town on high alert.

"Thank you for your cooperation," I announced. "This safety drill is now concluded."

Garrett was waiting for us by the water cooler. "Did you kill him?"