The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(53)

Doebler's cheeks flushed like handprints. He looked over at his friend with the silver shades. "Mr. Engels—advise me on the legality of stealing an executive's datebook.

This is still a crime in the United States, is it not?"

I recognized Engels now. He'd been Detective Lopez's driver last Saturday—the deputy who'd taken us to Garrett's apartment.

"Parttime security work, Deputy?" I asked. "Or is the Met Club bar on your patrol route?"

The ceiling fan circled above the bar, making the light flicker in Engels' sunglasses.

"Your call, Mr. Doebler," he said. "I can take him away."

The way he said it, I got the feeling Engels was receptive to more possibilities than simply driving me down to the station.

W.B. gave me an indulgent smile. "Mr. Engels is a valuable asset. He spent time in the SWAT unit, a few additional years as a firing range instructor. When he was returned to patrol—thanks to some unfortunate politics in the department—I was able to con

vince him to spend his offhours working for me. I find his talents quite helpful."

"Don't blame you. If I met with Pena, I'd take a bodyguard, too."

W.B. rattled his ice cubes. A waiter appeared with a refill, then disappeared back into his little waiter cave behind the bar.

"I don't know what leverage you think that datebook buys you, Navarre," W.B. told me.

"But it buys you nothing. I make a lot of trips. I have dinner with a lot of businessmen."

"You're telling me it's a coincidence. Pena met with you in January, than again in April, just before he tried to buy out your cousin's company, and it's a coincidence."

"Mr. Pena emailed me last Christmas, said he had a proposition. I was coming to San Francisco on business anyway. Pena had a solid reputation, so I agreed to meet with him. Only at dinner did I find out Pena was operating under a misconception. He'd come across an article about Techsan and assumed Doebler Oil was backing Jimmy's startup. He had hoped to deal with me on the idea of a buyout. I told him I couldn't help, that Jimmy had no support from Doebler Oil. Pena apologized for taking my time.

We finished dinner. We shook hands. That was the end of it. When I invited him here to lunch in April, I was merely being courteous."

"If Doebler Oil was underwriting Jimmy," I said, "Techsan would've had plenty of financial help. They would've been difficult to take over. If you'd given Pena indications to that effect, he would've backed off, looked for an easier target. Instead, you gave Matthew Pena a green light to destroy your cousin."

W.B. slid his feet off the table, sat forward. "You sound like a man who's trying to find any theory to absolve his brother of murder. I understand that. But Jimmy didn't need my help to destroy himself, Mr. Navarre. He didn't need help antagonizing your brother, either."

"You could have called Pena, not the other way around."

"To what end?"

"Clara's branch of the family—they've always been an embarrassment."

W.B. put his drink down, pushed it away with one finger. "Mr. Navarre, the Doeblers have given endowments to half the charities in the county. We've been a cornerstone of Austin politics, business, law. The Doebler name means a great deal in this community. The family never desires to present a negative image. All our business dealings are strictly aboveboard."

"Straight from your company brochure," I guessed.

His face darkened. "When we have family problems, they are just that—family problems. We take care of them ourselves."

"Your father," I said. "When he was chairman, he took care of Clara very nicely—forced her to give up her first child, her lover, an unborn baby. He broke her spirit, shuffled her aside, and when she died, he bought her a nice obituary without that nasty word suicide in it. Talk about positive image."

W.B.'s nondescript handsomeness was coming undone. His cheeks were mottled with anger, his jaw muscles pulling his face out of symmetry. Strangely, he looked a lot more like Jimmy this way.

"My father took his duties seriously, and he did not tolerate disrespect. Aunt Clara flaunted her problems. She sought scandal. Jimmy wasn't any better—hopping trains like a bum, making pots, living in that ridiculous dome—"

"You're jealous."

"Don't be absurd."

"You resented your cousin. You would've resented him even more if, after all those years of squandering, Jimmy ended up a financial success. You wouldn't have been able to bear that, would you?"

W.B.'s eyes were every bit as cold and shiny as Engels' glasses.

"Isn't this your department, Deputy?" he said. "Removing pests?"

Engels slid off his stool, came to stand next to my shoulder.

"What were you trying to buy from the sheriff, W.B.?" I asked. "A coverup—following in your father's footsteps?"

"If I see you again, Mr. Navarre, if you ever show your face, I will not be merciful."

Engels said, "Come on."

We left W.B. at the coffee table, studying its goldembossed surface like it was a war map—one on which his forces held only the low ground.

Engels escorted me toward the elevator.

After nine or ten steps, I said, "How long in SWAT?"