The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(96)

I couldn't respond.

"You getting back together with Maia?" he asked.

"I don't know."

Garrett glowered at me, letting me know he would not accept indecision.

"You think I should help Lopez?" he asked me. "You figure he's on the level?"

"Yeah. I think you should."

He called to the guard, who tried to pass him the ball. Garrett caught it, threw it away.

"Tres— Tell Lopez it's a go."

He winked at me with his good eye, then let the guard escort him inside.

I met Lopez by the guard station. He was using their phone, and didn't seem very happy about the conversation he was having. When he saw me coming, he lowered the receiver to the cradle without saying goodbye.

"Well?" he asked.

I filled him in.

Lopez shook his head. "I guess I got to get out my old LPs, take a listen to Son of a Son of a Sailor. I must've missed something."

"That call anything important?"

Lopez glanced at the phone, as if to make sure he'd hung it up properly. "Nothing you need to worry about."

We went down the elevator, now empty. At every locked door on our way out, some unseen guard on an unseen monitor noted our approach and buzzed us through.

When we got out into the foyer, Lopez reclaimed his gun. I gave back my red lawyer's tag.

Maia Lee was waiting for us at the main entrance.

I told her what Garrett had said.

She ran a finger across the glass. "We need to see Pena, try to break the bastard. I'm not sure Garrett can survive in here long enough to help the High Tech Unit."

"Any objections?" I asked Lopez.

Lopez straightened his gun belt. He stared out the window at the convict transport vans.

"Detective?" I asked again.

Lopez reached into his back pocket and pulled out a writing pad, flipped through pages of messy notes.

"Think I might take some flowers to the hospital," he said. "Deputy Engels has a few things to tell me about W.B. Doebler. He just doesn't know it yet."

"You sure that's wise?" I asked. "You know how tight W.B. is with the sheriff. And you're still supposed to be on leave."

Lopez put away his notebook, met my eyes. His expression told me he was past the point of caring about wise choices.

"You two go on ahead," he said. "Don't worry about me."

"You'll keep in touch?"

A small, thin smile. "Navarre. Counsellor."

Then he slipped out the tinted glasses and headed for his car.

Maybe it was just the fact that I'd said too many goodbyes that had turned permanent in the course of the week—to Jimmy, to Ruby, almost to Garrett. But I had to fight back a chill as Victor Lopez pulled away—a strange premonition that I wouldn't be seeing him again.

CHAPTER 39

Happy hour was under way on Sixth Street. Early evening revellers roamed from pub to pub, bands were setting up, the smells of Mexican food and mesquite barbecue filled the street.

Inside the Driskill lobby, lights glowed on the marble floors. At the baby grand, a lounge singer was doing Sinatra. I had to hold Maia's hand as we walked past, just to make sure she didn't draw her weapon.

We punched the elevator call button.

When the gold mirror doors slid open, we found ourselves face toface with Matthew Pena, holding a suitcase.

His eyes got very small. "What—"

I pushed him back into the elevator.

"Not leaving us yet, Pena," I said. "Not by a long shot."

Maia came in behind me, closed the door, punched fifteen. "How are you, Matthew?"

"You—" He looked like he was swallowing something spiky. "You, Maia—should be gone. Fired and gone. Ronald Te—"

I punched him in the mouth.

The suitcase clattered to the floor. Pena sank into a crouch.

My hand hurt. I'd cut a knuckle on his incisors.

Maia shook her head. "Gut, Tres. Always the gut."

"I know."

Pena pinched his jaw. His teeth were stained with blood. "What the hell are you thinking, Navarre? You call this private?"

Before I could ask what he meant, the door binged open. Wrong floor. The tenth.

A woman started to come in, did a hasty back step.

"We're going up," I told her. "Can't you tell?"

Maia pushed the button. The door slid shut.

When we reached the fifteenth floor, I pulled Pena to his feet. Maia got the suitcase.

Together we escorted Mr. Pena back into his luxury accommodations.

I wasn't even going to guess how much Pena was paying for the Cattle Baron Suite.

The decor was cedar and bronze and granite, Lone Star motifs, plush furniture, eighteenfoot ceilings, and massive curtained windows overlooking the nighttime skyline of Austin.

Two steps inside, Pena yanked away from me and landed a haymaker on the side of my face. There wasn't much force behind it. He tried for a second punch, but I slapped his hand down, kicked his feet out from under him. He landed on the maroon carpet.

"Knock it off," I told him.

Maia put the suitcase on the bed. She opened the snaps, pulled out several bricks of cash, Pena's portable computer, and a semiautomatic pistol.