an easier target. Instead, you gave Matthew Pena a green light to destroy your cousin.'
W.B. slid his feet off the table, sat forward. 'You sound like a man who's trying to find any theory to absolve his brother of murder. I understand that. But Jimmy didn't need my help to destroy himself, Mr. Navarre. He didn't need help antagonizing your brother, either.'
'You could have called Pena, not the other way around.'
'To what end?'
'Clara's branch of the family-they've always been an embarrassment.'
W.B. put his drink down, pushed it away with one finger. 'Mr. Navarre, the Doeblers have given endowments to half the charities in the county. We've been a cornerstone of Austin politics, business, law. The Doebler name means a great deal in this community. The family never desires to present a negative image. All our business dealings are strictly aboveboard.'
'Straight from your company brochure,' I guessed.
His face darkened. 'When we have family problems, they are just that-family problems. We take care of them ourselves.'
'Your father,' I said. 'When he was chairman, he took care of Clara very nicely-forced her to give up her first child, her lover, an unborn baby. He broke her spirit, shuffled her aside, and when she died, he bought her a nice obituary without that nasty word suicide in it. Talk about positive image.'
W.B.'s nondescript handsomeness was coming undone. His cheeks were mottled with anger, his jaw muscles pulling his face out of symmetry. Strangely, he looked a lot more like Jimmy this way.
'My father took his duties seriously, and he did not tolerate disrespect. Aunt Clara flaunted her problems. She sought scandal. Jimmy wasn't any better-hopping trains like a bum, making pots, living in that ridiculous dome-'
'You're jealous.'
'Don't be absurd.'
'You resented your cousin. You would've resented him even more if, after all those years of squandering, Jimmy ended up a financial success. You wouldn't have been able to bear that, would you?'
W.B.'s eyes were every bit as cold and shiny as Engels' glasses.
'Isn't this your department, Deputy?' he said. 'Removing pests?'
Engels slid off his stool, came to stand next to my shoulder.
'What were you trying to buy from the sheriff, W.B.?' I asked. 'A coverup-following in your father's footsteps?'
'If I see you again, Mr. Navarre, if you ever show your face, I will not be merciful.'
Engels said, 'Come on.'
We left W.B. at the coffee table, studying its goldembossed surface like it was a war map-one on which his forces held only the low ground.
Engels escorted me toward the elevator.
After nine or ten steps, I said, 'How long in SWAT?'
Engels kept walking. 'Three years.'
'And now back to patrol. Must be hard to swallow.'
The sunglasses told me nothing.
'Doebler's money can't make up for the demotion,' I said. 'What was it-you do something out of line? Fail the psych profiling?'
When we got to the elevator, Engels pressed the button. He watched the elevator numbers creep up.
'How much can he buy, Engels? Who else besides you?'
The elevator doors dinged, then opened.
'Right now,' Engels said, 'while we've been talking, I could've killed you five, maybe six times.'
I stepped inside the elevator, smiled at Engels. 'Missed opportunities. They suck, don't they?'
Those chrome lenses gave back my reflection as the doors slid shut.
CHAPTER 21
Dwight Hayes was a natural.
Not only had he found my truck in the Met garage, he had discreetly parked right next to it. I walked around behind his Honda and came up on the open passenger'sside window.
Dwight was occupied looking at the F150, craning his neck, trying to see through the tinted glass of the back window.
'What are those?' he muttered. 'Swords?'
'Yeah.'
I guess he wasn't expecting an answer. He jumped so hard he bumped his head on the Honda's ceiling.
I said, 'Hey.'
He cut his eyes to either side, seemed to come to the conclusion he was cornered.
'I followed you here,' he blurted.
'Really? You did that?'
He blushed. 'When did you spot me?'
'About the time we left the entrance of the Techsan parking lot. Until then you were tailing me flawlessly.'
He put his elbow on the window of the Honda, rubbed his forehead.
His face had the same slightly nauseated expression as yesterday. The colourfulness of his blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt didn't do anything to offset the morose poodleeyes, the chevrons of Band Aids patching cuts on his neck and forearms.
His floorboard was littered with cassette tapes-Lightnin' Hopkins, B.B. King, Fabulous Thunderbirds. Points for Dwight on the tasteometer.
On the passenger's seat was a yellow legal pad, a pen, half a pack of Hostess Snoballs. From the rearview mirror hung a small plastic Jesus, its arms spread like the Rio de Janeiro model. It seemed to be making some kind of pathetic promise-Some day, Dwight, you'll catch a fish this big.
'Don't worry,' I told him. 'Any fired employee of Pena's is a friend of mine.'
Dwight scowled. He gave his rearview mirror Jesus a tentative nudge. 'I shouldn't have called Maia.'
'Pena was so true to you. So loyal.'
Dwight's scalp glistened under his fuzzcap of brown hair. Sweat was trickling down my back. The summer midday parking garage was getting about as comfortable as the mouth of a Labrador retriever, but I waited while Dwight did his internal wrestling.
'He was my roommate at UT,' Dwight said. 'That's how far we go back. Freshman year. He kept track of me when he went out to California. When I was looking for work he sort of-adopted me. I owe Matthew a lot. Not just my job. I never expected to be as successful as him, but I've watched him. I've tried to learn some things about business.'
It was almost verbatim what Dwight's mother had said. I decided not to point that out.
'Pena fired you, Dwight. You'd had enough, you argued with him, and he fired you.'
'I shouldn't have pushed him.'
'He used you like a dowsing rod for new victims. You saw the results.'
Dwight thought about that. 'I followed you-I don't know, I guess after I talked to Miss Lee this morning, I started thinking about all the things I'd left out, things I should've told her.'
'I can take a message.'
'If I tell you something about Techsan's software, what can you promise me? I mean, about confidentiality. Protection.'
'I can promise that if you're desperate enough to talk to me, Dwight, it's going to come out anyway. You might as well tell me.'
He blinked, then gave me that wobbly smile again, that same illfed sense of humour I'd seen at Windy Point
