The Neon Rain (Dave Robicheaux 1)

"Thank you for your help. I'll see you at the track."

"Send him away, Dave. Even a policeman should not look into the darkness of this man's soul."

I reflected upon Jaime's statement after he had gone. Yes, it was about time that the Nicaraguan became somebody else's charge, I thought.

I locked a handcuff on one of his wrists, walked him out to my rental car, and hooked the other end through the safetybelt anchorage on the back floor. I went back inside the houseboat, dropped the tape cassette in my pocket, and looked up the number of Nate Baxter, from Internal Affairs, in the phone book.

"I've got one of the guys that killed Fitzpatrick," I said. "I want you to meet me down at the office."

"You've got who?"

"I've got the Nicaraguan in cuffs. I'm going to bring him in."

"You're suspended, Robicheaux. You can't bring anybody in."

"I can't book him, but I can sign the complaint."

"Are you drinking?"

"Maybe I ought to drop by your house with him."

"Listen, I can deal with you personally on any level you want. But you be

tter not drag your bullshit into my life. If you haven't figured it out by this time, there's a lot of people that think you should be locked up in a detox unit. These are your friends I'm talking about. Other people think you're a candidate for a frontal lobotomy."

"The last time you talked to me like this, I was in a hospital bed. Don't take too much for granted, Baxter."

"You want to clarify that, make it a little more formal?"

I looked out at the sun beating on the water.

"I've got the man that helped kill a federal agent," I said. "He can clear me, and I'm bringing him in. If you want to ignore this phone call, that's your choice. I'm going to call Captain Guidry now, then I'm going down to the First District. Are you going to be there?"

He was silent.

"Baxter?"

"All right," he said, and hung up.

Then I called Captain Guidry. His mother said he had gone to a band concert in the park. I poured out the rum remaining in the Nicaraguan's glass and started to wash the glass in the sink. Instead, I threw it as far as I could into the lake.

I could see the Nicaraguan's hot eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror. He had to bend forward because of the way his wrist was handcuffed to the floor, and his face was flushed and beaded with sweat in the seat.

"Adónde vamos?" he said.

I didn't answer him.

"Adónde vamos?"

I wondered which he feared most: Didi Gee's people, the city police, or Immigration. But, regardless, I wasn't going to help him out about our destination.

"Hijo de puta! Concha de tu madre!" he said.

"Wherever it is, I don't think it's Kansas, Toto," I said.

I parked in front of the First District headquarters on Basin, cuffed both of the Nicaraguan's wrists behind him, and led him by the arm into the building.

"Is Nate Baxter back there?" I asked the sergeant at the information desk.