The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(64)

"That's the pattern of the spin, and the number of lands and grooves. The projectile we just fired from the suspect's Lorcin is compatible. The damage to the projectile is bad enough that Lopez's man is right—I couldn't swear it's the same gun, but it's definitely from a similar .380."

I had expected that. It did not dampen my spirits too badly.

"The casing?" I asked, pushing my luck.

Quarles produced another Ziploc bag from his desk drawer, took out the brass I'd found in the lake. "It's a .380, all right. I put it in the microscope earlier—the crimp marks, where the projectile fits in the casing, line up beautifully. These marks are on the base of the projectile, you understand. Not as mangled as the top."

"Meaning?"

"The casing fits the projectile from the murder."

"A casing in the lake," I said, "maybe a hundred yards from the scene. It was picked up by the killer, dropped in the water during his exit."

Proof. Goddamn, perfect proof that Garrett was innocent. I looked at Lopez for vindication, but Lopez was staring at Quarles, apparently realizing there was more.

"Ain't had the real test yet," Quarles said. "The BOB markings— breech or bolt face—on this here casing. Give me one of the casings we just fired."

Lopez handed one over, and again Quarles adjusted the comparison microscope.

"Royal flush," he told us.

When it was my turn to look, I saw a circle of brass, cratered in the middle. Nothing exciting.

"The firing pin impression can't always tell you much," Quarles said. "They're circular, pretty much featureless, all the same. One thing, though—look at the outer ring. Those score marks. Now look at the other casing."

I saw what he was talking about—tiny breaks in the circle around the crater. They were similar on both casings.

I pulled away from the microscope. "But you said BOB marks all look the same."

"Mostly," Quarles amended. "For the same type of gun. Usually the firing pin strikes the back of a bullet in a Lorcin, you get a pattern of concentric circles that isn't very distinctive. This casing here, though, has some gaps in those circles—three distinctive gaps, maybe from the gun being cleaned improperly, I don't know. The thing is, your suspect's gun leaves the same kind of marks."

My chest turned cold. "Meaning—"

"This is ballistics. You don't usually get one hundred percent. But the chances of two guns making that same BOB pattern on a casing—they're astronomical. Without that casing you found, I couldn't be very certain, if I had to testify in court. But with the casing—well, the projectile fits the casing, and the casing fits the gun. I'd say your suspect's gun just got pinned to that murder about as well as you can pin it. About ninety percent."

Quarles treated us to a coffeestained grin. Then he noticed my expression. "I hope I helped. You ain't looking too happy for somebody just solved a case."

"He's ecstatic," Lopez promised. "You'll do a Drugfire search for matches on the casing?"

"Yeah," Quarles promised. "That'll take a few more days. Christ, Navarre, I thought I was repaying some favours. You look like I just stabbed you in the back."

John Prine started singing about flag decals on Mr. Quarles' computer.

Lopez looked out into the parking lot, where a maroon LeBaron was just pulling in. A large militarytype AfricanAmerican man in a coat and tie was getting out of the LeBaron, glowering.

"Come on, Mr. Navarre," Lopez told me. "Thanks for your time, Quarles."

In the hallway, Lopez said, "There's a back way through the CODIS office. Take it."

"A hundred yards away, Lopez. I showed you where I found the bullet. You know this is wrong."

His eyes were burning. "I know what ninety percent means, Tres. I know what it'll mean to my sergeant, who's about to walk through that door. And Tres—the bad things I said about Miss Lee? Forget them. Your brother is going to need all the help he can get."

CHAPTER 27

At sunset, the top windows of Ruby McBride's dream house glowed orange.

Most of the yachts were out enjoying an evening cruise. The restaurant was nearly empty. The boat jockeys had little to do except smoke cigarettes, recline on their massive forklift, play cards at the lakefront.

I sat in my truck, idling at the bottom of Ruby's private driveway, trying to decide if I really had enough courage to face another human being.

I'd spent the afternoon at Jimmy's dome, hiding from reporters' phone calls, hiding from the news reports, finishing Jimmy's kiln at the waterfront.

Because of me, because of one brass casing, the investigation had gained lethal momentum. At 2:00 P.M., my brother had been formally charged with murder.

I should've called our sister, Shelley, in Wisconsin, broken her long, selfimposed exile from the family to give her the news. I should've called my mom in Colorado, ruined her vacation. As of yet, I hadn't done either.

At the top of Ruby McBride's driveway, her blue Miata glistened—noseout, ready for action. Up on Ruby's deck, I saw a flicker of red hair go past.

I put the F150 into gear, rumbled up the drive, and skidded to a diagonal stop, blocking the Mazda.

I got out of the truck, walked up the stairs. I heard two voices before I got to the top—Clyde Simms mumbling something, Ruby answering, "No!"