by Rick Riordan
I made the tail as easy for him as I could. I stayed on Lamar all the way to Riverside, then along the river, left on South Congress.
Midday joggers wended their way along the shoreline of Town Lake. Hookers waited on Fifth Street, hoping to sell somebody a memorable lunch break. A homeless guy in a bed sheet was lecturing Asian tourists outside a Mexican restaurant. Above it all, at the north end of South Congress, the red granite rotunda of the Texas capitol loomed like D.C.'s Apache stepchild.
I turned on Sixth and slowed to look for parking outside One Metropolitan Plaza. The garage was on the other side, but I wanted Dwight to see where I was heading in case we got separated. I thought about rolling down the window and pointing for his benefit, but decided it might spoil his fun.
I lost sight of him when I made the turn on San Gabriel.
The security guard in the lobby of One Metropolitan kept his eye on me as I walked toward the elevator. The light from his desk console shone up into his face like he was about to tell a ghost story.
I kept walking, tapping Matthew Pena's leather appointment book against my leg. I was an important parttime member of the UT extension faculty, damn it. I could pronounce Old English names like Hrothgar with a straight face. I was untouchable.
The corporate headquarters for Doebler Oil took up the tenth and eleventh floors. In contrast to the hightech firms of South Austin, Doebler Oil was all stone and bronze and permanence. The reception area exuded wealth so deeply rooted and selfcantered that I almost expected the polished marble walls not to bother giving back my reflection.
I spent half an hour getting the passiveaggressive runaround from several different receptionists, only to discover that the custodian down the hall had the information I needed. Two fivedollar bills and some talk about blues music bought me the fact that Mr. W.B. Doebler always takes a break at the Met Health Club on the thirteenth floor at this time of day.
Sure enough, I found W.B. in a plush maroon and green lounge, slouching on a fake Louis XIV sofa, French doors behind him leading out to a red granite patio and the kind of view of Austin you'd expect for private club prices.
He was wearing workout clothes. His face and neck were striped with sweat, his feet propped on a goldembossed coffee table, and a tall yellow drink listed in his hands.
He was chatting with an older, similarly outfitted gentleman-probably his racquetball partner.
The only other person in the room sat at the bar-a large Anglo man with a dark suit and a gun bulge under his right arm. He might as well have worn a placard that said BODYGUARD. His sunglasses zeroed in on me the instant I entered the room and stayed on me as I approached W.B.'s sofa.
The older gentleman didn't notice me. He was guffawing a lot, slurring his words as if he'd had a few yellow drinks already. He was telling W.B. about his last trip to the Caymans.
I cleared my throat.
"Call for you," I told the older man. "Something about your mutual fund folding."
His face looked like a boiling crab-that moment when the bluewhite shell turns bright red. "Wh what-?"
"Don't know," I apologized. "That's just what they said at the front desk. Better go ask."
The fact that he had a cell phone and a beeper attached to his tennis shorts didn't seem to occur to him. He sprinted out to find the club phone.
I took his seat on the sofa next to W.B. The cushions poofed with the smell of Polo cologne and old man sweat.
"Dangerous prank, Mr. Navarre," W.B. said. "You realize he's on blood pressure medicine."
"Who, Gramps?"
"Gramps is a retired broker. He could buy you with pocket change. He owns stock in my company."
"Your company. All the other Doeblers in Austin know it's your company?"
W.B. held up his glass, drained it to yellow ice cubes. "I suggest you leave. We have nothing to discuss."
His friend at the bar was still staring at me through the silver sunglasses. His face looked vaguely familiar.
I opened Matthew Pena's appointment book. "We have a lot to discuss, W.B."
I flipped to the page I'd marked and read: "April 3, Lunch, 1:00, WBD, Met Club."
W.B. scowled at the book. "Where exactly-"
"It gets better." I flipped back in the book several pages. "January 10, IP on, Mr.
Doebler, McCormick amp; Kuleto's. Matthew Pena blocked off a whole evening for dinner with you in January, months before he ever decided to move in on your cousin Jimmy's startup company. What's more, McCormick amp; Kuleto's is in San Francisco. You went to him. You still want me to leave?"
Doebler's cheeks flushed like handprints. He looked over at his friend with the silver shades. "Mr. Engels-advise me on the legality of stealing an executive's datebook.
This is still a crime in the United States, is it not?"
I recognized Engels now. He'd been Detective Lopez's driver last Saturday-the deputy who'd taken us to Garrett's apartment.
"Parttime security work, Deputy?" I asked. "Or is the Met Club bar on your patrol route?"
The ceiling fan circled above the bar, making the light flicker in Engels' sunglasses.
"Your call, Mr. Doebler," he said. "I can take him away."
The way he said it, I got the feeling Engels was receptive to more possibilities than simply driving me down to the station.
W.B. gave me an indulgent smile. "Mr. Engels is a valuable asset. He spent time in the SWAT unit, a few additional years as a firing range instructor. When he was returned to patrol-thanks to some unfortunate politics in the department-I was able to con vince him to spend his offhours working for me. I find his talents quite helpful."
"Don't blame you. If I met with Pena, I'd take a bodyguard, too."
W.B. rattled his ice cubes. A waiter appeared with a refill, then disappeared back into his little waiter cave behind the bar.
"I don't know what leverage you think that datebook buys you, Navarre," W.B. told me.
"But it buys you nothing. I make a lot of trips. I have dinner with a lot of businessmen."
"You're telling me it's a coincidence. Pena met with you in January, than again in April, just before he tried to buy out your cousin's company, and it's a coincidence."
"Mr. Pena emailed me last Christmas, said he had a proposition. I was coming to San Francisco on business anyway. Pena had a solid reputation, so I agreed to meet with him. Only at dinner did I find out Pena was operating under a misconception. He'd come across an article about Techsan and assumed Doebler Oil was backing Jimmy's startup. He had hoped to deal with me on the idea of a buyout. I told him I couldn't help, that Jimmy had no support from Doebler Oil. Pena apologized for taking my time.
We finished dinner. We shook hands. That was the end of it. When I invited him here to lunch in April, I was merely being courteous."
"If Doebler Oil was underwriting Jimmy," I said, "Techsan would've had plenty of financial help. They would've been difficult to take over. If you'd given Pena indications to that effect, he would've backed off, looked for 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 when I'd borrowed his wet suit. "You always make your informants feel this good?"
"Wait until I get rolling. You got airconditioning in this thing?"
I climbed inside and shut the door.
Dwight turned on his engine, let it idle. I slanted one of the little air vents my way, got a blast of cool that smelled like old Silly Putty.
Dwight said, "Jimmy Doebler called me about the software, about a week before he died."
Dwight was staring out the window, watching the concrete columns of the parking garage as if he expected them to move.
"Why you?" I asked.
"Jimmy and I met when Matthew first approached Techsan about a deal. We spent an afternoon going over the code so Jimmy could show me it was solid. He treated me really nice. Even after Techsan rejected Matthew's offer, Jimmy stayed cordial, told me I could come out to his place sometime for barbecue."
"When he called you two weeks ago, what did he say?"
"He thought Matthew was sabotaging their program. And he thought he knew how."
I felt like a hunter who'd just had a sixteenpoint buck sit down next to him. I wanted to shoot the thing pretty bad, but I didn't dare move. I let Dwight take his time.
"Jimmy needed someone with access to Matthew's computer," he told me. "He wanted me to confirm his suspicions. He thought Matthew was using a back door in the program."
"A back door."
"Programmers call it that. It's a command that's not advertisedsomething that lets you inside the program. You hit your special access sequence, and you can get behind the program, go into God mode. The back door can give you unlimited access, let you change data at will."
"Or steal confidential files from betatesters," I suggested.
Dwight didn't answer.
"This back door," I said. "Where'd it come from?"
"Jimmy didn't tell me. Probably one of the original programmers-Jimmy, Ruby, or Garrett. Maybe they forgot about it, or thought it so well hidden there was no reason to take it out. One of them could've even snuck it into the program maliciously."
"Dwight, we're only talking about three people, here-how wo
uld the others not know?"
"You have to trust your partners in a startup-there's no time to check each other's work. A highlevel encryption program has millions of lines of code-millions of places to stash a back door."
"If one of the principals, a malicious one, gave Pena access to that back door…"
"Matthew could destroy the betatesting," Dwight finished. "The other principals might never know what hit them. Once Matthew bought Techsan, he could fix the back door quickly, document the problem, blame it on the original programmers, then turn around and make a huge profit. He could afford to bribe his informant several million and still come out ahead."
I thought about that. There were only three principals at Techsan. One was now dead.
"You told Jimmy you couldn't help him," I guessed.
Dwight nodded slowly. "I couldn't go behind Matthew's back. Jimmy couldn't give me any more specifics. The conversation came to an impasse."
"But now you think Jimmy was right."
Dwight stared at his little Jesus on the rearview mirror. "The way Matthew was talking yesterday, about how quickly he would fix the software, yes. I think Jimmy was right.
But that's not what bothers me most, Tres-not how Matthew hurt your brother's company, but why."
I waited.
"I've seen Matthew do bad things," Dwight said. "Scary things. But this acquisition seems… special to him. I gave him a list of four or five possibilities in Austin. Not just Techsan. But he looked at the names of the principals and zeroed in on Techsan immediately. He's spent a lot of time on this project, more than anything else he's done."
"The money potential," I said. "You indicated it was huge."
"That's just it. He's making it huge. He could've made the same size IPO with any other company I showed him, probably with less work. But Matthew is pulling in all his markers with venture capitalists to make Techsan his biggest play. It's like he intentionally wants to hurt these principals, make them know they've been crushed. He's being worse about this than I've ever seen him. Almost like-"
"It's personal," I supplied.
He nodded.
"Why would it be?" I said. "Pena ever meet Jimmy before?" "No."
