The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(78)

"Matthew's age," I said. "Born around '67. Clara Doebler, Jimmy's mother—she supposedly had an abortion around then, but just before Jimmy died he was searching birth certificates, asking questions— looking for that lost child. He was told that the child had been born— and I think Pena was the one who told him."

"And you think . . ." Dwight's throat seemed to be closing up. He shoved underwear into his bag. "That's nuts."

"Clara had already lost custody of one child," I said. "She couldn't bear to lose another one—not completely. She never had the abortion. She gave the child up instead. You said it yourself: Pena is treating this takeover differently. He's making it the centrepiece of his career. What better way to get revenge on your birth family than building on their ashes?"

"I've known Matthew almost fifteen years. He's never given any indication. He would never—"

His voice faltered.

"The night Adrienne drowned," I said. "You weren't with Pena, were you?"

Dwight yanked a Hawaiian shirt from the drawer—the blue one with the yellow lotus designs.

"All right," he admitted. "I lied. I lied to protect a guy who's helped me ever since college. When I walked aft that night, I ran into Matthew. I didn't see Adrienne go over.

I just saw Matthew, frantic—coming my way, looking for help. We roused the whole damn ship together, didn't have time to talk about exactly what had happened. Later, when people started questioning us, I saw a kind of fear sink into Matthew's eyes, like he was suddenly realizing what they'd accuse him of. He said that I'd been with him when Adrienne fell. He told what had happened, only as if I'd arrived a few moments earlier. I had to make a splitsecond decision. I went along with it. I didn't know what else to do. But he didn't kill her, Tres."

I'd spent years listening to people's stories, learning to separate out the lies. There wasn't anything suspicious in Dwight's voice. The night of Adrienne's drowning, some cop had merely committed the cardinal sin of interrogation—not isolating the witnesses prior to questioning. Somebody had done that, given Pena the chance to shape Dwight's testimony before he made it.

"You're chasing ghosts," he told me. "If you want me to, I'll go to the police, change what I said about that night on the boat. I'll help in any way I can. But if you go to them, say this is about some longlost child—"

"They'll think what the police have thought all along. That the obvious answer is the right answer. And all along, they've been wrong."

He threw his duffel bag on the bed. He went to the bookshelf, pulled out a drawer, and began tossing papers and pictures. There were photos from Dwight's childhood, report cards, Christmas cards, college transcripts.

"You want to save your brother," he said.

"Of course."

"But you don't want the truth."

My face turned hot. "What are you not telling me, Dwight? What's got you so upset?"

He shoved the drawer closed, stared at the documentation of his childhood on the shabby carpet. He kicked an old report card. "I was trying to get up the nerve, Tres.

Now, I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"What?"

"You said Garrett couldn't find the back door in the software. I don't think that was his problem at all. I'm wondering if you already knew that."

He stared at me, waiting for some kind of confession.

"I'm sorry, Dwight. I'm lost here."

He picked up a leather belt from the shelf. "The way the back door was written, the way it's embedded in the program. Not many people could do that, Tres. Not many programmers are that good, at Techsan or anywhere else."

Only then did I see where he was going.

The walls of the little dark bedroom seemed to be closing in. I wanted to open the window, turn on the lights.

Dwight curled his belt into a limp snake, shoved it into his bag. "Your brother wrote that damn back door, Tres. I'm positive."

CHAPTER 33

This time, I didn't fail to inform Maia.

On our way to the marina, I told her and Detective Lopez what Dwight had said about the back door in the software—how Garrett might've been responsible. My only consolation was that Maia and Lopez didn't know what to do with the information any more than I did. Lopez said he'd call the High Tech Unit, bat the problem over to them.

When we got to Point Lone Star, Clyde Simms was waiting at the gate, and he did not look delighted to see us.

He removed the giant chain with the CLOSED sign, then followed us down to the water on his motorcycle. He unlocked the security gate at the pier, walked us down to where the Ruby, Too was docked.

"What's the matter?" he growled at Lopez. "Six hours' questioning, and you didn't get enough out of me?"

"Thanks, Mr. Simms," Lopez said courteously. "You can wait here."

Clyde glared at me, like he wanted to have a very long conversation over beer and brass knuckles, but he said nothing.

On board Ruby's yacht, aluminium fingerprint powder covered the hatches and railings like pixie dust. Some evidence tech had left a surgical glove and a Ziploc bag on the pilot's deck. I could see Maia Lee taking mental notes, her defence lawyer's mind assessing the trial potential—sloppy handling of evidence, amateur crime scene processing.