The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(79)

We went below. The Dell workstations were gone. There was nothing but dustless squares on the tables.

"Machines were impounded by High Tech," Lopez told us. "Early reports—they'd been wiped clean. Nothing to trace without a deep recovery method—very expensive, very timeconsuming. Kind of like my machine."

Maia had been lifting pages on Ruby's wall calendar. She stopped on November, turned her attention to Lopez. "Your machine?"

"Yeah, counsellor." Lopez mimed a strike on a keyboard. "I got mail. Message came in when I got back to the office this morning. I read it, hit the print command, froze my system to hell. You should've seen the look on our tech guy's face when he rebooted and got a screenful of static."

"The killer," I said, understanding. "The killer emailed you."

Lopez looked like he was trying to swallow a foul taste out of his mouth. "Anything's possible, Navarre, once you get some local press. The Techsan buyout, Jimmy Doebler's murder—both have been in the news the last few days. We got our share of hackers in Austin. Could be some seventeenyearold looking for something to do on his summer vacation. But this emailer—he claimed he shot Jimmy Doebler. He knew the calibre of the weapon. He also said something interesting—said it was a hideandseek game now. He thanked me for closing my eyes and counting to ten while he slipped off."

The boat rose and fell gently under my feet.

"Someone's toying with you," I said. "It isn't Garrett."

"Of course not, Navarre. It's never Garrett. I got an APB out for the killer and that's the first line of the description—It's not Garrett. Now if you don't mind, maybe you could tell me what you expected to find here?"

Maia brushed past him, went into the sleeping cabin. We followed.

Nothing had changed in the bedroom as far as I could see. Maia studied the photos, the Lake Travis wall map with its green and red pushpins. The nightstand drawer was open. There was no gun inside.

"Scuba equipment?" Maia asked.

Lopez shook his head. "We don't know what was normally aboard, and Mr. Simms wasn't much help. He said Ruby often stored a dive

tank or two on board. There weren't any when we got here. That doesn't necessarily mean anything."

Out the small porthole window, the lake was hazy. A momentary slice of sun made its way through the rain clouds. Smoke rose from a barbecue at the public park. A hawk circled the woods.

Lopez's cell phone rang. He answered, listened for a long time.

Maia came over to me.

"The email," she said. "Pena."

"If it's wiped off the hard drive, there's no proof."

"In the spring, I got several messages like that, Tres. I'm sure."

Lopez was looking at the ceiling. He said into the phone, "Yeah. You're probably right about that."

More listening, then his face paled. He looked at me, offered me the cell phone. "For you. Just thought I'd screen it for you first."

I took the call.

"Navarre?" a man's voice said. "Ben Quarles. Firearms."

"Quarles." I forced myself to sound upbeat. "Miss me already?"

His next exhale was a strong wheeze, maybe what passed for riotous laughter down in the ballistics lab.

"I wanted to follow up," Quarles said. "I got the full picture after you left—well, shit.

Listen, that was a tough break about your brother."

"Not your fault."

"Yeah, well. I did a little digging—ran a Drugfire search on the casing. We keep a database of casing images from all over the state, goes back two, three years. It's hit or miss, depending on what individual departments choose to enter into the system, but I ran a check for similar firing pin impressions on spent brass, just to see if I got any hits." "And?"

"And I got one. Maybe. Scored a cold hit on a case from Waco, robberymurder back in 1987. It's an old damn case. Waco PD just put all their unsolved homicides on the network last month. Sheer luck—"

"The case," I interrupted.

"Robbery gone bad. Perp broke in the back door, surprised the occupant, shot this old guy four times. The victim's stuff was rifled through—boxes of papers, a file cabinet overturned, all his IDs and money taken. Perp wasn't too bright.

Dragged the body all the way into the bathroom, dumped it in the tub, ran water over it.

Who knows, maybe he was shaken up, got some stupid idea he could scrub the scene clean, then realized it was no good. Despite that, he got away—no leads, no prints.

The murder weapon was never found, but Waco PD did recover the four casings—all with distinctive BOB markings. Almost an exact match to the one from Jimmy Doebler's murder."

"You're saying Garrett's gun was involved in a crime in 1987?"

"No. That model wasn't even made back then. What I'm saying is that a gun was used in Waco in 1987 that left an almost identical BOB marking to the casing you found in the lake. And the Waco gun was never recovered."

"Hell of a coincidence."

"Don't use the C word with me, Navarre. Another thing I found out, chatting with people up in Waco—police weren't careful with their information. They publicized that they were working an anomaly in the shell casing, put a quote to that effect in the local paper. Either they were desperate for leads, or maybe they wanted to sound like they were making progress. Maybe they just didn't see the case as important enough for tight security. Whatever, it wasn't any secret."