The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(9)

The Carmen Miranda—Garrett's VW safari van with the Caribbean dancing women airbrushed along the sides and the plastic tropical fruit hotglued to the roof—had been returned from the crime scene, special delivery. I guess if I were the Travis County sheriff, I would want to get it away from my crime scene as fast as possible, too.

Parked next to it was my black Ford F150.

"I'll only be a second," Lopez told our driver. "You hang tight."

The deputy glanced in the rearview mirror—shot me a notso veiled f**k you look.

"Whatever you say, sir."

Lopez and I walked toward the apartment complex. Lopez stopped in front of the Carmen Miranda, shook his head in admiration.

"I dig the pineapples," he said.

Lopez's features were satanically pleasant, teaandmilk complexioned, framed by a square jaw and a severe, greasy buzz cut. He had a halfback's build and the eyes of a chess player.

"When does Garrett get released?" I asked.

Lopez feigned surprise. "Should be upstairs right now. Why? You thought we would hold him?"

That was a hook I decided not to bite.

"Don't look so down," Lopez said. "Y'all cooperated beautifully. Now we just got to find who whacked your friend, right?"

I leaned against the back of the van, hating how leaden my eyes felt, hating the odour of smoke in my clothes from last night's fire. "Garrett wouldn't kill Jimmy. Even if he wanted to, his wheelchair ..."

Lopez's eyes glittered. "Sure, Mr. Navarre. According to your statement, there's no way. We're just asking questions, you know? Got to explain those nagging details, like why your brother's gun had been fired. Why there was powder residue on his hand."

"I told you—"

"He shot a statue. Happens every day. And we'll have to explain the fact there was no shell casing at the scene. You know. Just some little details like that."

Lopez was watching me the way a fisherman watches the tide, moving across it with a skeining net.

I said, "He's disabled, Lopez."

"I prefer to think of him as differently abled, don't you? But don't worry—I'm sure we'll find the casing sooner or later. Ballistics has the projectile now—probably find out it was from a completely different gun. Some anonymous killer in the night, I imagine."

"Garrett needs a lawyer."

Lopez bopped his fists together, hotpotato style. " 'Course not, Mr. Navarre. I appreciate y'all's candour. And I promise you: I will nail Jimmy Doebler's killer."

"You treat every case with this much enthusiasm?"

"I knew Jimmy. I liked Jimmy. I used to work patrol out at the lake, knew all the folks out that way."

"And his family has a few gazillion dollars," I added. "Jimmy's cousin was talking to the sheriff today."

A safety valve clicked shut in Lopez's eyes.

"W.B. Doebler isn't my concern." Lopez gave the initials their proper Texas pronunciation, dubyabee. "You know Jimmy, you know he had a pretty shitty life—that family of his, the stuff with his mom, the clinical depression. Seemed like he was finally coming out of it when he got roped into this business deal with your brother."

He let his smile creep back to full intensity. "But hey, that doesn't matter. Jimmy and Garrett were quarrelling, your brother was mad enough to discharge a weapon, I'm sure that's not important."

I looked back at our driver, who was staring at me through the windshield—giving me the look of death.

"Don't mind him," Lopez said. "Some of the guys, they heard about that little accident down in Bexar County, you shooting that deputy. Doesn't play well with the uniforms.

You understand."

"And with you?"

Lopez made a pish sound. "I got no sympathy for bad cops. That ass**le was corrupt: you took him down. Good for you. I believe in weeding out the bad, Navarre. Don't care if it's a friend or a relative or what. I hope we're on the same page with that."

I looked up toward Garrett's apartment door.

"I'm on your side, man," Lopez assured me. "I wouldn't want this to get around, but the people I know in San Antonio—they say you're all right. They say when it comes down to a fight, you're a guy who can be counted on to choose the right team."

"I see your point," I said. "We wouldn't want that to get around."

"You got my card." Lopez turned to go, then looked back, as if he'd forgotten something. I hate it when cops do that. "And Navarre? The discrepancies in those statements you and your brother gave us? I'm not thinking much of them. For instance— were you with your brother when you heard the shot or not?"

I didn't answer.

"I don't know why your brother failed to mention that he and Jimmy were arguing at dinner, like you told me. It's probably nothing. Just—bad form when the statements don't agree, isn't it? I hate going back later, using WiteOut."

"I know my brother."

Lopez smiled. "Of course you do. Where does he work again— RNI? Oh, no. That's right. He quit that job over a year ago."

Up on the secondfloor walkway, one of the apartment residents waddled out in his jockey shorts and a tattered Waterloo Tshirt. He yelled down to us that his neighbour was throwing his sofa off the back balcony and we should stop him.