The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(80)

"I still don't—"

"What I'm saying, Navarre—if I were that killer, and I heard the police talking about my gun that way, I could have some fun with that information. I could examine my own casings, then deface another gun's firing pin area. I'm saying I could do this, a master gunsmith, somebody who knew what they were doing. In a couple of minutes, I could make another gun have the same BOB markings as mine—as long as it was a similar calibre and make. Potentially, you could play hell with ballistics—modify somebody's gun, commit a crime with your gun, and then frame the other guy. The BOB markings would be so rare, your frameup victim would seem like a dead ringer. I'm not saying it's likely, but it's sure as hell possible."

I looked at my friendly neighbourhood homicide detective, who was stonefaced, tapping his fingers against his sidearm. "Quarles, you share this information yet?"

"Yeah. And look, Lopez will tell you it's a farfetched idea. He's right. I'm just trying to give you something you could use. You get a good lawyer, maybe he could use this Waco case to cast some doubt on the evidence, point out that ballistics aren't exact.

Shit."

"What?"

"I can't believe I'm giving you advice to help a defence lawyer. God forgive me."

"Waco. What was the victim's name?"

I could hear Quarles shuffling papers. "Lowry."

Out the window of the sleeping cabin, the white barbecue smoke was streaking the tops of the trees. My chest felt like it was turning into something just as insubstantial.

"Ewin Lowry?"

"You know the case?"

I thought about the picture I'd seen in Faye Ingram's garden— the rakish gypsy gambler next to Clara Doebler, both of them smiling. I thought about the letter Clara had received from Waco in 1987, the letter she'd thought was from Ewin Lowry, promising retribution.

"Navarre?" Quarles asked.

"I've got to go, Quarles. Thanks."

I hung up, handed Lopez back his phone.

"Forget it, Navarre," Lopez said. "It's the longest of long shots."

I told Maia about the Waco case. Then I told Lopez who Ewin Lowry was, and about Matthew Pena's parentage.

It's hard to shake up a homicide detective, but Lopez's face completely deconstructed.

For once, he was without a reply.

"The bathtub," said Maia. "Water. Adrienne Selak drowned. Jimmy's truck was half submerged. Clara was shot by the lake. This man—Lowry—intentionally dragged into a bathtub. The girlfriend, the brother, the mother, the father ..."

"And Ruby," I said. "Disappeared off a boat."

Lopez snapped his phone shut, clipped it to his belt. "I like criminal psych profiles as much as anybody, counsellor. But what you're suggesting ..."

He stared at the photos on the nightstand—the smiling pictures of Ruby McBride.

"All right," he relented. "What are you saying—the water has meaning?"

"The killer submerges his victims," Maia said. "At least, he tries to. Water could mean cleansing. Absolution. My guess—he cares for the people he's killing."

"Cares for them," Lopez repeated.

"He's a sick individual. He wants to be close to these people. Maybe he even picks special places—Doebler's lakefront property, for instance. He killed Jimmy just where his mom died."

"Kills his victims and then washes them," Lopez said. "Tries to cover them in water. A purification ritual."

Maia nodded.

"Shit." Lopez scowled. "Now you got me doing it. Okay. So you've got a crazy theory.

Now what?"

"The killer has contacted you," Maia said. "Made himself known to the investigator in charge. Usually, that means one thing. He's preparing for the endgame."

I studied the Lake Travis wall map—the white topographic lines etched into the blue.

"There," I said.

Maia and Lopez turned. I went to the map, counted up the arc of red pins, the submerged property line that Ruby had been mapping. I put my finger on the sixth pin—the one farthest out from the shore.

"A special place," I said. "A submersion. Call your recovery unit. Tell them to dive there."

"In the middle of nowhere," Lopez said. "Upstream from where we found the boat. You want me to call Search and Recovery and tell them that?"

"Tres," Maia said. "Why there—why that pin?"

"Because," I said, "when I broke into this boat, two nights ago, that pin wasn't there."

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Subject: dinosaurs

I was in the backyard. This is my earliest memory.

My friend and I were playing. We'd taken an old card table and covered it with mud, stuck some plastic dinosaurs in it.

I don't remember what my friend looked like back then, which is funny, because he is such a presence for me now. Later images have superimposed themselves on that first memory—years of hating and wishing.