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nose.
    "I was sleeping in my van. With the doors locked."
    "Why?"
    He rubbed his thumb against his forefingers, rolling an imaginary joint. "In Jimmy's house, I woke up in a cold sweat. I have phantom pains and I get these weird dreams—like somebody has been standing over me in my sleep. I would've felt stupid waking you up. I thought Jimmy was sleeping upstairs. So I went to the one place I feel safe and mobile—behind the wheel of my van. I locked myself in, put my gun on the seat next to me, went to sleep. The shot by the water woke me up. What was I going to tell the police? I was afraid of ghosts so I locked myself in my car?"
    "It would've been better than lying, Garrett. I'm going to need an explanation for Detective Lopez."
    His eyes flared. "You need an explanation. Well, let's just stop the goddamn world.
    Let's drop everything and make sure Tres is okay, because my little brother needs an explanation. He needs the ranch. He needs to know where Garrett is twentyfour hours a day. Well, maybe for once, little brother, you ain't going to get everything you need."
    The counting wasn't helping anymore. Downstairs, Nine Inch Nails went into their next song, the bass line massaging the soles of my boots.
    "Did you see anyone last night?" I asked.
    "No."
    "You must suspect someone. The banker guy."

    "Matthew Pena," Garrett murmured.
    There was something in his voice I hadn't heard often—pure hate.
    "You think he's capable of murder," I said. "An investment banker?"
    Garrett pressed his palms against his eyes. "I don't know."
    "What about Jimmy's ex? Ruby McBride?"
    He hesitated. "No. No way."
    "But?"
    Garrett stared at his monitor. "There are reasons I didn't talk to you sooner, little bro.
    Not just because I wanted you in the dark."
    "I snoop for a living, Garrett. Let me help."
    "In all the years Dad was sheriff, do you ever recall me asking him for help?"
    "Maybe you should have. He would've done damn near anything if you'd ever called."
    "Here it comes, the guilt trip from the good son. Forget it. I don't want you in my problems because I don't want you hurt, man. And believe me, you would get hurt."
    I looked at Garrett's clock—Dad's clock. I'd been in Austin twentyfive hours. The ranch was still mortgaged. Jimmy Doebler was dead. My brother's life was falling apart. And he didn't want me involved because I might get hurt.
    I set my shot glass on Dad's army locker, which served as Garrett's makeshift coffee table. I stared at Dad's recliner, thought about Dad's old saddle that hung on Garrett's bedroom wall.
    Not for the first time, I had to swallow back a comment about hypocrisy. Garrett always insisted I'd been Dad's favourite, the model son, and yet I owned almost nothing of the Sheriff's. Garrett, who had always railed that he wanted nothing to do with our father, lived surrounded by his things.
    "You don't want my help," I said, "at least get a lawyer. You want some names?"
    He gave me an uneasy look. "I told you, man. I'll handle it."
    "Fine," I said. "Just primo."
    I was halfway out the front door when he called, "Tres."
    The sun through the skylights made his beard glow almost blond.
    "You're right about cooperating for Jimmy's sake," he told me. "But you've got to trust me, little bro. I've got to handle this without you. I just can't—"
    He looked at me as if he was trying to explain a smashed vase. "Do you understand?"
    "I'm trying, Garrett. I am."
    He held my eyes, searching for some stronger commitment. When he didn't find it, he turned and wheeled himself into the bedroom.
    I pulled his front door locked behind me.
    The afternoon sun was heating the walls of The Friends into a cooking surface. I walked toward the stairwell, listening to industrial rock and the neighbours arguing behind every door.

CHAPTER 6
    I managed to stay home a whole twentyfour hours, but San Antonio felt like a ghost town.
    My colleague George Berton was in L.A., spending his life savings on the Spurs playoff games. My