I saw Pena below me, making a casual ascent, his eyes dark and open and completely blind. I put my head above water as he surfaced ten feet away.

He used the automatic inflate on his BC, rose a few more inches out of the water.

His eyes were bloodshot, his face crawling with irritation.

The paleness of his skin had not been a trick of the water. Now that the regulator was out of his mouth, I could see cruel thin lips, outlined by neatly trimmed, coarse black whiskers.

He said, "Where's my mask?"

I pointed toward the middle of the lake.

He started to say something, stopped himself. "That was $400 worth of equipment."

"And I'm charging $200 per breath of air, which makes us even."

He brought up his hand console, read the computer, let it float back under. "I'll get the mask later. Which way did you throw it?"

I showed him.

"That's about a hundred and twenty feet deep, the way the shore drops off into the river channel. Thanks a lot."

I smiled. "I'm Garrett Navarre's brother. It was no problem, really."

Pena's eyes got small. "I don't have time for this."

"You shouldn't have time to screw with people's lives, either. But you seem to manage."

Pena put his mouth and nose underwater, seemed to whisper something to the fish, then raised up again. "Maia warned me about you. She was quite irrational on the subject—claimed you could be an annoyance."

"I'm flattered."

"Annoy me, and you'll get hurt."

"I read about your girlfriend," I said. "She must've annoyed you pretty bad."

The scariest thing was the millisecond delay in his face, the processing time during which Matthew Pena seemed to make a conscious choice which emotions to show me. He decided on a combination of hurt and anger.

"You have no right to speak about Adrienne. You know nothing about it."

"I know this, Pena: Maia's not protecting you this time."

"And you're doing your best to jeopardize your brother's only chance at a buyout, aren't you?"

I hated that he made me hesitate.

"Techsan isn't my concern," I said.

Traces of a smile flickered across his mouth. "Really."

"I'm just here to tell you, Pena—if you had anything to do with Jimmy's murder, you will be nailed. If you decide to harass my brother with any more faxes, emails, or messwithyourmind presents, I'll become a regular at your scuba classes. I'll follow you to work every day. I will introduce myself to all your prospective clients. You will get to know me very well."

He looked toward the shore where Maia and Dwight were both now standing—little sixinch dolls from this distance.

"Maia Lee in the flesh," Pena said appreciatively. "A shame she couldn't take a friendly warning, stick with a winning team."

"You're the one who's been warned, Matthew."

"Yes," he agreed easily. "I was sorry to hear Doebler and your brother had a fallingout. Sorry your brother went off the deep end. But this is a highstakes business, Mr. Navarre. Those things happen. I'll attend the service tonight to pay my respects."

I started to kick back toward shore. "I can hardly wait."

"And Mr. Navarre? If I really was the sort of person you think I am, you realize I would now make it my personal hobby to destroy you."

"Be an expensive hobby, Matthew. Stick to scuba."

He put the regulator back in his mouth. He raised his BC hose and hissed out the air from his vest, sunk below the surface, still without a mask.

What he would do down there with limited vision, I had no idea, but something told me Matthew Pena was a lot more vicious than anything else he might encounter under Lake Travis. He'd find his way.

I got to the ladder.

At the top of the cliff, Maia Lee was waiting, looking furious. "What were you saying earlier, Tres, about not messing up?"

I dismantled my gear at the picnic table.

Dwight Hayes held the air tank while I detached it from my back.

"He didn't recognize the suit," Dwight asked anxiously, "did he?"

I stripped off the wet suit, left two twenties under the weight belt to pay for the rental, then put my Tshirt and jeans back on over damp jockey shorts.

"I'm not going back in there," Dwight decided. "I don't care what Matthew says."

Maia put her hand on his shoulder. "Dwight—think about what I said, okay?"

He shook his head. "I can't, Maia. He's already going to be mad enough. You don't blame me, do you?"

Maia gave me a cold stare, and I realized I really had screwed up. I'd completely misread Maia's reasons for coming out here.

"Of course I don't blame you," she told Dwight. "Take care of yourself. You have my number if you change your mind."

As we walked back up the gravel path, Maia muttered a few choice curses in Mandarin.

"You came out to work on Dwight Hayes," I said. "He's the weak link in Pena's armour.

You didn't want to pressure Pena at all."

"And by hardballing Pena, you just made Dwight more apprehensive about talking to me. Nice job, genius."

"You could've told me."

She muttered some more curses, then trudged ahead, apparently determined to get out of scuba country as fast as she could.

I took one last look back at Dwight Hayes, but he was paying us no attention. He was staring out over the edge of the cliff, watching the smooth scars on the water below, waiting for his boss to emerge.

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Subject: women

She's intriguing.

Reminds me of Adrienne.

This one's apartment rises from the top of Potrero Hill, above the wine shop, between an Italian restaurant and an antiques store, on that cold stucco and asphalt hill that always smells of roasting coffee.

White inside—stark white. Huge windows. Hardwood floors. Not much else. You can stand at her windows at night—watch the fog pour into the valleys, the lights of downtown, the pearl necklace of the Bay Bridge. You can stand there in a thousand square feet of air and almost believe she's as cold as she lets on.

You have to look deep to find anything softer, anything interesting.

Her closet is a row of beige and white. Good brands, expensive fabrics—raw silk, pure linen. Running fingers through her wardrobe, you can just catch her scent—a perfume she wears too lightly to be perceptible on a single outfit.

In the back of her closet is a shoebox, fastened with rubber bands. Inside are her naturalization papers from 1969. She was ten years old, a cute kid, judging from the picture—but sad, looking like she was just hit and is trying real hard not to cry. There are five or six other photos—not enough for me to take one, unfortunately. Yellowing black and white shots—an old man in a traditional Asian robe. The writing on the back is in Chinese—at least I suppose that's what it was. A few other pictures of old people.

Then there's the photo of the house. I guess you could call it a house. It looks like something from Tijuana or Zaire—a box put together from old doors and corrugated tin, clinging to the side of a rubble mound as if it had just slid there from the top. No grass, just dirt—chickens pecking at rocks. A huge mulberry tree on a hill in the back—the only thing that looks healthy.

I memorized that photo. The old Chinese people didn't interest me. But places. Places are important.

I looked at the photo, then I looked at the apartment—the clean white walls, the glass.

I understood why it had to be perfect, how she must wake up at night and imagine she is six or seven years old—rocks under her straw mat, rain dripping through cracks in the tin roof. I felt close to her, thinking about that.

In her nightstand drawer, on the lefthand side, she keeps a gun—a Sig Sauer. I toyed with the idea of using that information, but no. The right path for her is too obvious, if it comes to that.

I remember sitting on her bed and thinking about Adrienne. This wasn't long after the night on the boat. I still had that small electric current inside, that sense that I'd played it close. Too close. And it had been wonderful.

I attract women like her—the ones who don't know when to stop.

"Yes," I wanted to tell her."I remember what it was like. I remember what happens when a woman steps into your life. And I will step into yours, instead."

CHAPTER 10

I've never shared a quieter fortyminute drive.

We stopped by the Driskill long enough for Maia to change. I waited in the lobby, tried not to look too stunned when Maia appeared in black—a colour she never wore, and one that looked damn good on her.

Jimmy Doebler's memorial service was on Airport Boulevard at a small Unitarian church—a prefab BoxoGod wedged between a Taco Bell and a WhileUWait key shop.

I looked for the drivethru window on the church, didn't find one, and decided we'd have to park.

Inside, pews made a C around the altar. About forty people sat listening to the organist play her prelude—a mournful, highly spiritual rendition of "Cheeseburger in Paradise."

The crowd looked like what you'd expect at a funeral for a Parrot Head, as Buffett fans called themselves. There were scruffy men in jeans and Hawaiian shirts, ladies in tube tops and Indian print skirts—people who knew their way around a margarita machine.

One notable exception in the front row was W.B. Doebler—a blue pinstriped island in a sea of tropical prints. At the opposite end of the pew sat Ruby McBride in black pants and Vneck blouse, white linen jacket, pearl necklace.

Behind her sat her biker bodyguard, Clyde Simms. Clyde had forgotten his Bizon2

this evening, but his fashion statement still

qualified as lethal force—a scarlet silk suit, black dress shirt, silver bola. His blond hair fanned out around his shoulders. The World Wrestling Federation goes to a wake.

Garrett sat beside a pew in the back, where his wheelchair wouldn't get in the way. He was holding note cards for his eulogy. I tried to remember the last time I'd seen him in a coat and tie.

Next to him, at the end of the pew, sat Detective Victor Lopez. Something told me that Garrett had not been the one to pick this seating arrangement.

Maia made a short hissing sound when she spotted Lopez.

"Detective," she said. "Would you mind moving—perhaps to a different sanctuary?"

Lopez grinned, scooted over. "That's okay, counsellor. Plenty of room."

We slipped into the pew—Maia next to Lopez, me next to Garrett. Four friendly mourners.

The lines in Garrett's face were deep, his eyes watery.

"You okay?" I asked.

He looked at me, bent his index cards. "Not the first adjective I'd pick. No."

Lopez reached across Maia's lap and tapped my knee. "Say hey, Mr. Navarre. We need to talk."

He wore jeans and a dress shirt and a beige summerweight jacket. His eyes were bloodshot, his chin shadowed in stubble. Either he hadn't been to sleep last night or he was trying to blend in with the Jimmy Doebler crowd. "You got somebody to call the medical examiner's office for you," he said. "That's a big naughty."