In the Electric Mist With Confederate Dead (Dave Robicheaux 6)

I kept my eyes flat, my hands open and motionless on the desk blotter.

"You called them?" I said.

"I did, and so did the mayor. It's a kidnapping as well as a rape and murder, Dave."

"Yeah, that could be the case."

"You don't like the idea of working with these guys?"

"You don't work with the feds, sheriff. You take orders from them. If you're lucky, they won't treat you like an insignificant local douche bag in front of a television camera. It's a great learning exercise in humility."

"No one can ever accuse you of successfully hiding your feelings, Dave."

Almost thirty minutes from the moment the attorney, Oliver Montrose, had left my office, I looked out my window and saw Elrod T. Sykes pull his lavender Cadillac into a no parking zone, scrape his white-walls against the curb, and step out into the bright sunlight. He wore brown striped slacks, shades, and a lemon-yellow short-sleeve shirt. The attorney got out on the passenger's side, but Sykes gestured for him to stay where he was. They argued briefly, then Sykes walked into the building by himself.

He had his shades in his hand when he stepped inside my office door, his hair wet and freshly combed, an uneasy grin at the corner of his mouth.

"Sit down a minute, please," I said.

The skin around his eyes was pale with hangover. He sat down and touched at his temple as though it were bruised.

"I'm sorry about sending the mercenary. It wasn't my idea," he said.

"Whose was it?"

"Mikey figures he makes the decisions on anything that affects the picture."

"How old are you, Mr. Sykes?"

He widened his eyes and crimped his lips.

"Forty. Well, actually forty-three," he said.

"Did you have to ask that man's permission to drive an automobile while you were drunk?"

He blinked as though I'd struck him, then made a wet noise in his throat and wiped his mouth with the backs of his fingers.

"I really don't know what to say to you," he said. He had a peculiar, north Texas accent, husky, slightly nasal, like he had a dime-sized piece of melting ice in his cheek. "I broke my word, I'm aware of that. But I'm letting other people down, too, Mr. Robicheaux. It costs ten thousand dollars an hour when you have to keep a hundred people standing around while a guy like me gets out of trouble."

"I hope y'all work it out."

"I guess this is the wrong place to look for aspirin and sympathy, isn't it?"

"A sheriff's deputy from St. Mary Parish is going to meet us with a boat at the Chitimacha Indian reservation, Mr. Sykes. I think he's probably waiting on us right now."

"Well, actually I'm looking forward to it. Did I tell you last night my grandpa was a Texas ranger?"

"No, you didn't." I looked at my watch.

"Well, it's a fact, he was. He worked with Frank Hammer, the ranger who got Bonnie and Clyde right up there at Arcadia, Louisiana." He smiled at me. "You know what he used to tell me when I was a kid? 'Son, you got two speeds— wide-open and fuck it.' I swear he was a pistol. He—"

"I'd like to explain something to you. I don't want you to take offense at it, either."

"Yes, sir?"

"Yesterday somebody raped and murdered a nineteen-year-old girl on the south side of the parish. He cut her breasts off, he pulled her entrails out of her stomach, he pushed twigs up her vagina. I don't like waiting in my office for you to show up when it's convenient, I'm not interested in your film company's production problems, and on this particular morning I'd appreciate it if you'd leave your stories about your family history to your publicity people."

His eyes tried to hold on mine, then they watered and glanced away.