by Rick Riordan
"Right," I said. "Might as well start at the beginning."
I launched into the story of Beowulf.
By the third or fourth minute, most of the students were hooked. I'd figured this was better than asking them to read Beowulf cold, on their own tonight. Twothirds of the class would sink in the mire a long time before Grendel ever did.
Halfway through, a middleaged lady in the back raised her hand apprehensively. She asked what I was doing.
I said, "Telling the story."
She frowned. "Isn't that-" She fumbled for the right word. "Cheating?"
One of the younger dudes said, "Cool."
I suggested that the Saxon warriors who'd first heard Beowulf had probably not sat around in rows of desks analyzing it.
"This is storytelling," I said. "Entertainment. You have to imagine a filthydrunk audience on a cold winter night, demanding their skald give them a good riproarer or they'll cut his throat."
Inspired, one of the dudes raised his hand and asked if we could adjourn to the Hole in the Wall Saloon.
Father Time asked, "Can we kill you if we don't like it?"
I told them both regretfully, no. Group health and liability coverage had been significantly better for Saxon skalds than it was for parttime professors.
We got back to Heorot.
Maia listened dutifully in the back row.
At last we got the monsters slain and Beowulf home to the Geats.
Some of the students even clapped.
We discussed historical context for a few minutes, then the imagery and literary devices they should pay attention to when they read the text on their own. I distributed handouts of questions they should be prepared to discuss tomorrow.
Maia accepted the assignment along with everybody else. At the top of her sheet, I'd written: Don't even think about it.
We adjourned. I stayed behind to answer questions and was relieved-albeit confused-to see that Maia didn't wait around to harass me. She slipped out the door with a smile and a discreet thumbsup.
After the last person was gone, I shut off the lights and stood in the doorway, looking at the dark tiers. I tried to reconcile the fact that I'd just put aside PI work for an hour and gotten paid to tell a story. Compared to what I was planning for the rest of the day, this was like being paid to show people the sunset.
I locked the classroom, walked through the campus' West Mall-down the flagstone paving, past twisted live oaks, bronze fountains, signup tables for student political organizations, kids pushing newspaper subscriptions.
I crossed Guadalupe. On the other end of the 24th Street parking lot, I saw Maia leaning against the side of my truck. The driver's side door was open and the stereo was on, KGSR turned up very loud. Toni Price was jamming about her old man.
Maia said, "Can I drive?"
"Funny thing-I always lock my car."
"Must've forgotten," she sympathized. "Keys?"
"No."
If she weren't a grown woman, I would've called her expression a pout. She got in and scooted to the passenger's side. I started the AC before shutting the door. The joys of owning a black truck-all the heat in Texas gets sucked right into your cab.
Maia rubbed the dashboard. "I didn't ask yesterday about the new wheels."
She politely didn't add: Because I was too pissed off at you.
"Jess Makar's," I told her.
"What'd you do? Kill him?"
Jess Makar had been my mother's livein boyfriend until a few months ago, when Jess dumped her.
I explained to Maia that I'd kept track of Jess through my PI contacts.
"The credit agencies," she guessed.
"Just out of concern, you understand."
"Oh. Sure."
I told her things hadn't gone financially well for Jess. My credit agency friends had helped a little bit with that. When it came time to repossess Jess' pride and joy, his black '97 Ford F150, I'd been more than happy to do the honours. Strangest thing, I'd also gotten the high bid for the truck at the creditors' auction.
"I never considered you much of a pickup truck guy," Maia said.
"But you got to admit-" I gestured over my shoulder. "The tai chi swords rock."
She looked back, nodded. "Yes. They fit perfectly in the gun rack."
We pulled out of the parking lot, heading west toward Lamar.
"You going to tell me why you're here?" I asked.
"I can't seek higher education?"
"You've reconsidered. You're desperate for my help."
It was the first laugh I'd heard from her in over two years.
We drove past the Lamar playground, the rusted old bridge over Shoal Creek. I had no idea where I was going.
"I spoke with Garrett," Maia said. "He told me about the Techsan sale. Said you were very encouraging."
We reached the red light at 12th Street. I looked over. "You want to whip me?"
Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses now, dark as solar panels. "Tempting, but no. It struck me as odd, though, how quickly Ruby and Matthew Pena were able to seal the deal."
"Almost like they had a hot line set up," I agreed.
A horn honked, letting me know I was sitting on a green light.
"By the way," I said. "Pena left me a housewarming present this morning."
I told Maia about the gutted catfish.
I might've been announcing another ninetyfivedegree day with mosquitoes and rain, for all the surprise Maia showed.
"Goddamn him," she muttered.
"Last night," I said, "you were going to tell me how Pena had gotten under your skin."
"You assume I was going to tell you."
We drove a few blocks in silence.
Maia crossed her legs-a task that would've been impossible in my old car, the VW bug. She touched her sunglasses. "In February, after it was clear the SFPD wouldn't be pressing charges in the Selak case, Matthew invited me to dinner-a thankyou present, he said. I wasn't thrilled, but I saw no reason to be rude. I didn't realize that by accepting, I was opening a door. He began calling me. Sending emails-increasingly personal emails, as if he'd been doing research on my life. I mean, thorough research, Tres. Once…" She paused. "He came into my apartment."
I glanced over, but her face was impassive.
The idea of someone forcing his way into Maia's apartment seemed incredible. Not to mention insanely dangerous.
"You caught him?" I asked.
"No. I could just-tell. He was becoming a stalker. I should know. I've defended a few.
Finally, I forced him into a meeting at a very public place-a cafe in North Beach. I gave him a ceaseand desist speech. I was rather forceful."
I couldn't help grinning. "And after that?"
"After that, things got better for a while. Then, when Garrett called me in March, asked my advice about Techsan, Pena became a problem again, as if he knew I'd been talking about him. Pena started calling my bosses, telling them I was being unprofessional, perhaps even breaking attorneyclient confidences."
"April Goldman must've laughed in his face."
Maia stared out the window, watching shops go by, suntanned bikers braving the heat.
"April's leaving the firm, Tres. I work for Ronald Terrence now-only."
In my darkest moments, when I had been the angriest with Maia, I never would've wished that on her.
Ronald Terrence was the archetypical conservative law partner, politically moderate by Texas standards? by San Francisco standards, a neoNazi. He didn't have much use for professional women, or liberals, and so had made the deliberate decision to hook up with April Goldman, a liberal woman partner, to soften his image and increase his clientele base. The result had been a surprisingly successful and longlived firm. At least until now.
"April wouldn't take you with her?"
Maia's face got even darker. "No. She would not."
Her tone told me not to pursue that line of questioning.
"And Ronald Terrence is tight with Matthew Pena,
" I said.
She nodded. "Ron had words with me about this… vacation. He didn't threaten, but he let me infer that I might not be welcomed back. He's called twice since I got here, mentioned that Matthew Pena has been in touch with him."
"What did you tell Ron?"
"I haven't returned his calls."
This was so unlike Maia, I didn't know what to say.
She closed her fingers around her knees, took a breath.
"Forget all that," she said. "What I really came to tell youDwight Hayes called me this morning. The Techsan sale seems to be weighing on his conscience. He said you'd spoken with him last night, encouraged him to call me." She hesitated, steeling herself. "I guess I should thank you for that."
I tried to stop thinking about Maia's job-the junior partnership she'd worked so many years to get. "Dwight give you anything good?"
"He was still pretty cagey, but he said in a couple of days we could expect AccuShield to announce they'd fixed Techsan's software problem.
"A couple of days?"
"Dwight said they'd wait just long enough to make the announcement seem plausible."
"Then they've known what the problem was all along."
Maia moistened her lips. "Another little secret Dwight let slipPena has made a very sweet little deal with his client, AccuShield. Apparently they're a lot more impressed by Techsan's security product than they let on. If Pena manages to turn Techsan around, get the betatesting back on track, get the investors lined up, AccuShield has promised to let him spin off the company as a separate IPO."
"Meaning what?"
"Money, Tres. Lots of it. AccuShield would keep seventy percent of the stock. Pena gets thirty percent. And Dwight thought the IPO-with the proper backing-could be huge."
"Huge like family size or economy pack?"
"Total valuation? Think billions, with a B."
My hands went numb on the steering wheel. "A company Pena paid four million for.
Garrett's company."
Maia nodded. "I'd say this is the careermaker deal for Mr. Pena."
I pulled into the parking lot at Waterloo Records, stopped the truck. The neon cows were dancing above the Amy's Ice Cream sign. Even in the daytime, in the middle of June, Christmas lights blinked in the palm trees.
I replayed every word I'd said to Garrett the night before, about how he should sell his company. Now, despite the ranch, despite my best rationalizing, I felt like those words should be tattooed on my back with a hot needle. Billions.
I wondered if Ruby had known the real value of what she was signing away. I wondered if she'd made some inside deal with Pena. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. It was easier to get mad at Ruby than at myself.
"Dwight won't go on record with this," I guessed.
"Even if he did," Maia said, "it's nothing we could take to the police. Dwight had nothing to say about Jimmy Doebler's murder. Or Adrienne Selak's drowning."
I told Maia about my morning phone call with Lopez, about the call Jimmy had made to homicide two months ago. I told her about the family research Jimmy had been starting.
Maia stared out the windshield. "The fact Lopez knew Jimmy, had talked to him recently, might be enough to taint his investigation. If I had to, I could use it. That and the fact he coerced you and Garrett into making initial statements without a lawyer."
"Coerced?"
"Sure. You remember. You said Jimmy was asking about his mother."
I started to tell her about Clara Doebler's suicide.
"I know," she interrupted. "You think the family history is important?"
Her tone told me it wasn't just a processofelimination question. She was testing, putting out a line. I wondered how she knew about Clara's death.
"His cousin W.B. runs the family company," I said. "He wouldn't tell me anything, but I got the feeling there might be something about Jimmy's death-something that makes the family nervous."
Maia watched the neon cows. "Garrett and Jimmy had a long history-a lot of bad blood between them. Lopez will use that for motive."
"I know."
"We have to be sure Lopez doesn't have a point."
I didn't like the silence between us-a heavy feeling, like the beginning of a landslide.
I didn't like the fact that neither of us felt confident enough to leap to Garrett's defence.
"Jimmy has an aunt in town," I said. "On the phone, she seemed a little more pliable than W.B. We could go see her, try running the family angle."
Maia studied the palm trees.
"We," she said, like she was testing the word, seeing how much weight it would hold.
I waited through a full rotation of the Sixth Street light, but Maia said nothing more. I figured I'd gotten as much of a yes as I could hope for.
I put the truck in drive and headed north again, toward Hyde Park.
CHAPTER 17
Faye DoeblerIngram's house was a small folk Victorian on an unmarked residential half block, tucked behind a vegetarian restaurant and a lesbian gift shop. I drove past, Uturned, and parked across the street at the base of one of the city's moonlight towers.
The front porch was outlined with lacy white trim. The screen door was peach, the porch swing green. Her sidegabled roof had recently been sheeted in galvanized steel. Her yard was a quarteracre garden-every square foot cultivated with herbs and wildflowers, pathways made from broken flagstones. A good deal of money had gone into making the house look quaint and rustic. It didn't look like the kind of place where the resident was accustomed to being rocked by tragedy.
Maia opened the passenger's side door, bringing in the scents of the neighbourhood-cut grass and garden herbs.
"Tu es pres?" she asked.
"Just like old times."
Even a hint of her smile gave me more pleasure than I wanted to admit.
Maia led the way. The white cotton straps of her dress made an X across her shoulder blades. Her hair had grown longer than I'd realized. Gathered in a white scrunchietie, her glossy chocolate brown ponytail didn't look so much girlish as formidable-like the mane of a T'ang warrior.
The garden was hazy with the smells of catmint, thyme, and sage. We climbed the front steps, ducked under a trellis of grapevines.
The lady of the house opened her screen door before we reached it. "May I help you?"
She was a slight woman in her sixties-stick arms, a pleasantly wrinkled face surrounded by enormous permed hair the bright colour of new pennies. Her jeans and blouse were covered with a gardener's apron, but she wore full makeup and silver jewellery. She looked like a friendly earth gnome who'd just been to the beauty parlour.
Maia said, "Mrs. DoeblerIngram?"
"Just Ms. Ingram," the woman replied gently. "Yes?"
She held a spade, a clod of mud stuck to the point.
I said, "We spoke on the phone. I'm Tres Navarre. This is Maia Lee, a friend."
Faye Ingram's eyes got smaller, more wary. "I don't… you mean about Jimmy's death?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said. "There've been some developments since we spoke, Ms.
Ingram. We thought you'd want to be prepared if the police contact you. May we come in?"
She wavered, but refusal wasn't really an option, the way I'd phrased it. She let us in.
The house had the same wildly cultivated look as the front garden, clumps of floralpattern sofas, sprigs of end tables blooming with houseplants, tall pedestals topped with artwork, even one of Jimmy's large ceramic pieces. The smell of freshbaked cinnamon bread wafted from the kitchen. Somewhere in the back rooms, Dylan's Blood on the Tracks was playing. Faye Ingram may have looked nothing like her nephew, but being in her house, I could believe they were related.
Yet something struck me as out of character-something that told of fear. There was a blinking sensor by the door, discreet wires running up the sides of the windows, a keypad next to the light switch. Laidback Ms. Ingram had one of the finest security systems money could buy.
She led us throug
h a hallway, out into the backyard.
The sun was filtering through the branches of an enormous oak tree. On the sidewalk, a circle of five sun tea jars glowed like some weird, translucent Stonehenge. Lining the fence were tomato and pepper cages, mansized sunflowers slouched in their last weeks of life-leaves curled brown and seed faces blasted from heat and the work of birds.
We sat in patio chairs under the oak.
"So," Ms. Ingram said uneasily. "You have something to tell me?"
"We wanted to ask about Clara's suicide," I said.
If I was expecting a strong reaction, I didn't get it. Ms. Ingram's smile stayed polite, colourless, wavering no more than her hairdo. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what this has to do with Jimmy."
"In the weeks before he got murdered," I said, "Jimmy was researching his mother's past. I know he called you and W.B. and several other relatives. He also called the police, asking for the files on Clara's death. I know Clara's relationship with the Doebler clan was… rocky. It may have nothing to do with Jimmy's death. It just strikes me-"
Ms. Ingram's eyes were watery, unfocused, courteous. I suddenly felt guilty, as if I were forcing something unpleasant into a fragile container.
"It unsettles us," Maia said. "The way Clara died, the place. Jimmy dying in the same spot, the same way."
Faye Ingram laced her fingers together, set them like a little igloo on the mint green patio table. "The police tell me they are close to an arrest."
"They are," I agreed. "And once they have a convincing possibility, they won't look elsewhere unless they have their arms twisted. The rest of the Doebler family isn't likely to twist, are they?"
"Your brother-he is the one they will arrest. Yes?"
"Yes."
"And would it surprise you greatly if I refused to help you?"
"No."
Ms. Ingram read my eyes, then looked toward her garden-the giant, ruined heads of sunflowers. Ms. Ingram nodded, as if she'd made a decision.
"Excuse me a moment," she murmured.
She rose, almost trancelike, and wandered inside.
Maia and I looked at each other.
I shook my head doubtfully, by no means sure Faye Ingram would be coming back without the police.
