The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(63)

The hairy man looked at me. "Then you're Navarre?"

"Ben Quarles?"

Quarles shook my hand. "Gene Schaeffer at SAPD vouched for you. Said you kept them supplied with some of their more humorous work."

"That Gene," I said. "He's a sucker for knockknock jokes."

Quarles looked at Lopez. "Told me Tres—TRES—I figured a Spanish guy."

Lopez patted my shoulder. "You know, we're trying. We keep feeding him frijoles. So far he ain't turned brown. Now if you don't mind, Ben—?"

Quarles' mouth twitched. "Come on in, gentlemen."

Our host walked as if someone had shot him in both feet. He led us down a narrow corridor, past a couple of offices to a big metal door. He swiped his security card across the lock.

The room inside looked like a Branch Davidian garage sale— pegboard walls hung floor to ceiling with weapons, all tagged, arranged by size from tiny .22s on the left to rocket launchers on the right. In the back corner was an umbrella stand full of swords and tire irons and baseball bats.

Quarles picked a small black and silver handgun off the wall. "Your suspect's Lorcin.

Came in about an hour ago."

My stomach went cold just looking at it. I hated the thing— hated the fact Garrett had been stupid enough to buy it. I wanted it obliterated, melted down, ground into rebar.

Then I looked around the room at the two hundred, maybe three hundred other weapons—each the last stage prop in someone's life. Each had been cleaned, sanitized, impartially crossreferenced with a bright red tag. I was standing in a closetful of endings. Among them, Jimmy Doebler's murder was unremarkable.

Quarles turned to Lopez. "Projectile's in my office. You're saying it was fired from this, right?"

"Our man couldn't rule it out. You going to tell us different?"

Quarles' eyes crinkled. "Haven't testfired yet. You want to come?"

He took the gun and a box of .380 ammo.

We followed him out of the lab, around the parking lot, to a building in back. The test range was a concrete hall with a lead curtained trap at the far end, a paper target holder overhead on a motorized track. At the near end was a folding table with several sets of ear protectors and a staple gun.

I picked up the staple gun. "You testfire a lot of these?"

Quarles handed us the headsets. "Gene Schaeffer also said if you didn't amuse me, I could go ahead and shoot you."

I decided against the peppy comeback.

Lopez and I put on our ear protectors. Quarles didn't fire down range. Instead he loaded the Lorcin and went to a large tin box on the side of the room. It looked like the industrial bait tanks they use to stock lakes—about a twohundredgallon model, with a hollow spout sticking up on one side, high enough so that Quarles had to stand on a stool to put the gun into the opening.

He fired six rounds—each a muffled boom and a flash of light in the tank's spout. He pointed at the floor. Lopez and I collected the ejected casings. Quarles dragged his stool around to the side of the water tank, opened the top, and fished around with a long piece of PVC pipe until he'd speared all the slugs.

"Get me a lobster while you're in there," I said.

I knew the comment amused him because he did not shoot me.

Quarles showed us six little mushrooms of copper and lead. The water had slowed them down so the shapes were almost uniform, the lower ends retaining perfect striations from the gun's barrel.

Lopez said, "They're just lovely. I figure we got about five more minutes before my sergeant gets here and makes us eat them."

We adjourned next door to Ben Quarles' office.

His window looked out on the asphalt parking lot, with a scenic side view of the DPS

loading ramp. The walls were adorned with framed black and white photos of Geronimo and John Dillinger. A John Prine song was playing from the computer's speaker. On the shelf above Quarles' desk was a line of fired bullets, four Larry McMurtry novels, a red roll of evidence tape circled around a Play Doh can.

Quarles picked up a Ziploc evidence bag from his desk, pulled out a slug. "This is the one from your victim's head. They cleaned the cooties off it."

He threw it to me before I could protest. I looked down at it—a little bit of metal, small as a gumdrop. Quarles plucked it back from my palm, then put the slug and a test slug from Garrett's Lorcin under his comparison microscope.

The machine looked like an oldfashioned icecream blender from a malt shop—same size, same turquoise and chrome finish. Quarles peered into the lens, turned some knobs, and said, "Yeah."

"Match?" Lopez asked.

"Come look."

Lopez did, then turned away, his face stony. "Go on, Navarre."

The image in the microscope was the left half of one bullet jutted up against the right half of another. You could turn a knob to move the dividing line, seeing less of one or the other bullet, comparing size, lines, markings. The bullets rotated slowly, and in the microscope light they were beautiful—gold and silver, like a piece of jewellery highlighted in a homeshopping ad.

I was no expert, but even I could see that the ridges—the lands and grooves—were fairly well aligned.

"You've got a rightsix GRC on the projectile that killed your friend," Quarles said.