by Rick Riordan
"Mind games," she said. "But if nothing else, Lopez will be obliged to investigate-spend his time focusing on alternatives other than you."
Garrett didn't look reassured.
Across the room, more soft laughter from the artichoke heads. They were making comments about the Techsan program-wondering what moron had designed it.
I didn't want to, but I filled in the rest of the story for Garrett. I brought him up to speed on what Dwight had told Maia-how the software problems would be fixed quickly, how the late great Techsan might turn overnight into a billiondollar proposition.
Garrett picked one of his Chinese warriors, tossed it to me. "I told you it was a good program. You got what you wanted, little bro. Don't be so down."
His listlessness scared me more than any amount of anger. I almost wanted to hand him a Lorcin, tell him to start shooting. Almost.
"Ruby McBride," I said. "You've known her a lot longer than you let on. You two used to
… date?"
"Ancient history," Garrett told me. "I never would've agreed to work with her otherwise."
"That serious, huh?"
A young woman in sweats came toward us, a box of plants and keyboards in her arms.
One of the temps, probably, hoping to say goodbye. When she saw Garrett's expression, she hesitated, then did a quick retreat. Maybe she decided a final farewell wasn't so important after all.
"Lopez will use Ruby," Maia told Garrett. "If he can establish a motive for you killing Jimmy-jealousy, resentment, a jilted lover's revenge-he'll make the DA's day."
I'd had trouble looking at Garrett the last few days, with the weight he'd lost, the unhealthy colour of his skin, the distant possibility that he recently killed someone…
Now he seemed even less like himself. With his black shirt, his beard trimmed, his dour expression, he reminded me of a renegade Greek Orthodox priest.
"When I was in physical therapy the first time," he said, "I had a nurse named Scholler.
Hardass German woman. Used to scream at me."
Garrett didn't often talk about his accident, or the days immediately following. Now he spoke like he was building a bridge of ice, freezing section by section, seeing if it would hold his weight.
"Scholler made me do situps," he said, "which was really hard for me. I mean it's still hard, because I've got no leverage. She would hold my hips and holler at me to work.
I hated her. I could barely get out of bed. Once I was on the floor-anything would stop me. An electrical cord lying across the carpet was like the fucking Great Wall of China.
And here was this German bitch, making me get over it, prodding me to get to the mat so she could force me to do my fifty situps."
"But looking back," Maia guessed, "you appreciate her."
"Hell no. I still hate her guts. The thing is-the struggle never changed from that first couple of weeks in PT. Getting out of bed never got any easier. There are days when that electrical cord seems like the biggest damn thing in the world, and the only thing keeping me going is that voice screaming in the back of my head."
He stared at the Chinese warrior in my hands, grabbed it back.
"You want to know how serious Ruby and I were? What you live for after PT-you try to find reasons to get up in the morning that are better than Nurse Scholler. There was a time-early on- when I thought Ruby would be my reason. I found pretty quick it wasn't going to be that way. Ruby couldn't even look at me after I lost my legs."
"And you blamed Jimmy."
Garrett didn't answer. He turned the bronze warrior around, examining its tarnished spots. "The last few years, little bro, my reason for getting up has been this place.
Ruby and Jimmy-they ruined that for me, too. Lopez wants to use that as a reason why I'd be resentful, there's nothing I can do about it. He's right."
I looked at the wooded hills outside, the expensive viewfor lease, feeling Garrett's sense of defeat fully for the first time.
Here we were in his office, in the company he'd laboured years to build, and we were the intruders. The only difference was, I could leave anytime and it would mean nothing. When Garrett left, it meant the end of everything-his life's work, his dreams, his two oldest friendships.
I didn't want to feel responsible for that defeat, and I resented Garrett because I did anyway. He was the one who'd quit his secure day job. He was the one who'd mortgaged our family land. Why was I feeling guilty?
The frosted door of the conference room opened.
Matthew Pena stepped out, followed by two briefcase warriors in dark blue suits.
Pena zeroed in on us immediately, but was too busy shaking hands with the blue suits, telling them goodbye. As soon as the visitors were safely out the door to the reception area, Pena made a beeline toward us, walking leisurely, his expression no more con frontational than a tank about to roll over a bicycle.
"You don't work here," he told Maia and me. "You will leave."
His face was an even creepier albino hue in the fluorescent lights. The bruise on his jaw where Clyde had punched him looked like a smoke ring.
"They're helping me," Garrett growled. "Lay off."
Pena studied him. "I'm sure you can understand our security concerns, Mr.
Navarre-not letting unauthorized visitors in. You remember the idea of security, don't you?"
Garrett yanked his knife out of the wall. The headline fell to the floor.
I put my hand on his forearm. "Let's talk, Pena."
"We have nothing to talk about."
"Come on, Tres," Maia Lee said. "We can catch up with the gentlemen from the SEC, have our conversation with them."
Pena's eyes narrowed.
He looked at the point of Garrett's knife, then back at Maia.
"I can give you five minutes," he decided.
Pena started walking toward the conference room.
I turned to Garrett. "Keep it cool, okay?"
"Sure," Garrett grumbled. "One homicide at a time."
I left him holding the knife in one hand, the Chinese warrior in the other like a grenade, and I followed Maia through the frosted glass door.
CHAPTER 19
Pena's newly acquired conference room had one wall that was all window, a rectangular table with six chairs, and a bare bookshelf. On the conference table was a box marked Trash. Inside was a Jimmy Doebler pot, a picture of Ruby and Jimmy's wedding, and a dried bouquet of pink roses.
Pena was looking out the window-his back to us, his hands folded behind his waist.
"Five minutes," he reminded us.
I sat down next to Maia, took advantage of Pena's dramatic pose to stick my bottlecapsize digital recorder to the underside of the table. Maia raised her eyebrows at me.
Pena turned around.
"Well?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I was savouring the moment."
He checked his watch-a stainless steel Tag Heuer, a diver's model. Three thousand dollars' worth of ticktock. "Perhaps you have time to waste, Mr. Navarre."
"Speaking of wasting time," I said, "thanks for the fish guts. Must've eaten up a chunk of your morning-what with hostile takeovers, lives to ruin. I'm flattered."
His face told me nothing. One of Pena's computers couldn't have spit out data as non sequitur any more quickly than he did. "You now have three minutes."
Maia Lee ran her finger along her lips like the barrel of a gun.
"We need to have our discussion again, Matthew-the one where we review the rules of polite society."
His eyes dimmed.
At least he wasn't a total fool. He'd learned to associate pain with Maia.
"You shouldn't have come here," he warned her. "Ron Terrence agrees with me-it isn't like you to be so unprofessional."
"You haven't seen unprofessional yet," she promised. "But keep talking. Tell me how your little high school lackeys out there-the ones who can't seem to find their way into the program-are going to solve Techsan's software problems in a couple of days."
<
br /> It took Pena a good thirty seconds to remember to look condescending.
"Dwight Hayes has been talking to you," he decided. "No matter. Dwight's job was terminated last night, the moment he touched me. Whatever he says now can be dismissed as the rantings of a fired employee."
"I thought you two went way back," I said.
Pena stared at me, as if he didn't see my point. "Whatever Dwight told you, Mr.
Navarre, Techsan selfdestructed with no help from me. Like so many other startups, your brother and his friends didn't have the first clue how to bring their product to market. They should feel lucky I gave them as much as they got."
"They should grovel," I agreed. "And if they don't, they should be made to grovel."
"Your brother has enough troubles, Mr. Navarre. Let him pack his boxes. Wheel him home, plan your legal strategies. At least now he can pay his lawyer's bills once he sells his stock."
Maia leaned forward, picked a dried rose out of the Trash box. It crumpled in her fingers. "You've overextended this time, Matthew. Anticipation of the big money has made you sloppy. What did you tell me once?" she asked. "You like to find the fault lines, keep hammering in spikes until the target cracks apart? Maybe I'll try it with you, Matthew."
Pena's expression got close to real anger-almost as if he were human.
"Be careful how you talk, love," he said. "One phone call-your junior partnership at Terrence amp; Goldman goes into the shredder. Two phone calls, I can have you disbarred."
"Hard to use the phone, love," I said, "if the cord is wrapped around your neck."
Pena came around the table, slowly, and sat on the edge, leaning over me so our faces weren't more than two feet apart. His breath smelled of cardamom. I happened to see the depth gauge on his Tag Heuer, still logged to his last dive. Eightysix feet.
"Don't make this about Maia," he said. "She's good, Navarre, but she's not worth it."
I tried to concentrate on the fact that the recorder I'd placed under the table was running. It calmed me down sufficiently to avoid escorting Matthew Pena out his fourthfloor window.
Pena leaned back, satisfied. "It's been nice talking with you. And, Maia- If you ever change your mind, ever feel that you don't want to go down with the ship…" He feigned an embarrassed smile. "But that's a bad metaphor. Still terrified of diving, aren't you? A shame. I'd love to get you under the water."
"Shut up, Pena," I warned.
He laughed. "Oh, but this Maia Lee. Inscrutable Maia who was put on earth to protect people like me. She never shows her fault lines, much as I'd like to see them. Where are they, Tres? I suspect you put a few in her yourself."
Maia Lee pushed her chair back, got up gracefully.
Her snap kick caught Matthew Pena in the mouth, sent him backward over the table.
Before I could do anything-assuming I'd wanted to-Maia had collected Pena from the carpet, put him in an armlock, and shoved him against the empty bookshelf.
"First rule of polite society," she said. "Never annoy Maia Lee."
She spun him around, slammed him against the corner of the table-his groin at just the wrong level.
"Second rule of polite society. Never. Annoy. Maia. Lee."
She pulled him off the table-Pena doubled over in pain-and bowled him into the bookshelf, which being empty, peeled away from the wall and fell, the top whamming against the table so it made Matthew a tidy little office furniture tent.
"Third rule," Maia said, catching her breath now. "Figure it out."
She collected her purse, tugged at my arm to bring me out of temporary paralysis, and we left Matthew Pena to his busy schedule.
In the main work area, people were standing up at their cubicles, all looking in our direction-like a prairie dog town on high alert.
"Thank you for your cooperation," I announced. "This safety drill is now concluded."
Garrett was waiting for us by the water cooler. "Did you kill him?"
"Maia calmed me down before I could," I assured him. "This building have a security detail?"
He grinned. "No. Ain't it great?"
"Nevertheless," Maia said, "perhaps Garrett and I should go visit the police now, before they find a reason to visit me."
Her white scrunchie had slipped down on her ponytail, and the third button of her dress had come undone, but something told me this was not the time to point out these details.
Maia escorted Garrett through a cluster of the gaping screen heads, back toward Garrett's cubicle to collect his things.
I went out through the reception area.
Krystal Negley was reading her romance novel. She smiled in surprise. "Hey. Didn't get that equipment?"
"Matthew Pena kicked me out. If he asks, you did not let me have the access code."
Her face paled. "You some kind of spy?"
"A private eye," I said. "Sorry I wasn't straight with you."
"A private eye. No shit?"
"Sorry if I caused you trouble."
She managed a laugh. "With Mr. Pena for a boss? I'm his fourth personal assistant since he got to Austin. I was ready to quit anyhow. But I figure you owe me a favour now, right?"
"I figure I do."
She slid open her drawer, pulled out a small leather binder. "Mr. Pena's appointment book for the year. My predecessors kept printing out hardcover backups from his computer. You figure you could find some annoying ways to use the information?"
I smiled at her. "I think I could, Krystal. And you're something else."
"The wrong men keep telling me that," she sighed, and went back to reading her romance novel.
XMimeOLE: Produced By MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6700
Date: Mon 12 Jun 2000 14:36:400000
From: EL ‹ waynorth@ashield. com›
ReplyT o: pub_index@ashield. com
To: ‹recipient list suppressed›
Subject: firearms
I found the house easily enough-a grimy little bungalow in the shadow of l35. The yard was dirt and crabgrass, the windows covered with silver insulation material. Just the sort of rat hole I'd imagined he would live in.
His back door latch was easy to jimmy.
Inside, the kitchen smelled of raw chicken left out too long. Television light glowed in the next room. I could hear something insipid playing-something with lots of canned laughter.
I remember being thankful for the checkered grip on the gun, because my palms were sweating. This time would be so different. I hadn't planned anything closeup before, nor with a gun. This time would count.
I crept forward, stood in the doorway.
He was slumped in a corduroy recliner, his eyes glued to the set. I was amazed at the way he had deteriorated, how little he looked like the photo in my pocket. His face was a war zone of melanomas and capillaries. His hair had thinned, grayed to the colour of pencil lead, but that stupid moustache was still as black and bushy as ever. His belly was a hard little thing, like he'd swallowed grapeshot.
I watched him a long time, waiting to be noticed. Ten feet away, and he didn't even see me. I got so nervous I started to smile.
He sensed something was wrong. He looked over, locked eyes with me, and it wasn't funny anymore.
"What the hell…?" His voice dragged itself out of his throat. "Pinche kids."
He started to get up, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Come into my house…?" he grumbled.
I tried to say what I'd intended, but things weren't going as planned.
He was supposed to stay there, frozen by my gun, and give me time to talk. Instead, he was struggling to his feet, mumbling that he'd give me a thrashing, that I'd best run before he got his rifle.
He took a step toward me.
Someone had told me the pressure on the trigger would be the same as lifting a jug of milk with one finger. I'm telling you, it was easier than that.
My hand bucked from the recoil.
The arm of his corduroy chair ripped open, spitting out cotton filling. The Old Man's exp
ression just turned angrier. He put a hand out to grab me. My second shot bit off part of his palm, left a bloody groove where his heart line ended.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way.
He started to scold me and the third shot caught him in the shoulder, tore it open like a paper package of meat.
The fourth found his chest, right below the sternum. He knelt painfully, as if entering a church pew. Then he fell forward, turned over, and looked straight up into my face.
The ringing in my ears faded. His eyes were going glassy. His throat made heavy wet noises, like gargling.
Four shots. Enough noise to wake every deaf retiree in the neighbourhood.
And I stood there, stupidly, letting him die on me. My knuckles turned white, the checkered grip of the gun grafting its pattern into my palm.
Finally I remembered what to do. I knew the last sound I needed the Old Man to hear.
I grabbed him by his hairy wrists and left blood streaks down the hall as I dragged him toward the bathroom.
The mess I left still amazes me.
But there again, it was Providence.
I learned how little the police really know, how easily they can be manipulated, how desperately they want to see the obvious.
Most importantly, I learned there is no grace to a gun, no intimacy. I panicked. Things got away from me. And I couldn't have a second chance.
That gnawed at me afterward: thinking about ways I could've done it differently, things I never got to say.
But I learned. I got better at prolonging my time, slowing things down.
And, of course, I got to be a much better shot.
The trick with guns is not practicing for greater and greater distance. That's for the firingrange jocks.
The trick is learning to get right up close.
CHAPTER 20
I spotted Dwight Hayes tailing me before we even left the Techsan parking lot.
He was driving the gray Honda I'd seen last night in his mother's driveway. The car was nondescript enough, but Dwight's blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt made up for it.
He stuck out in traffic like a clown who was late for work. We drove up South Lamar, Dwight staying too close, changing lanes with me diligently.
