Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)
Page 44
Chapter 13
DOESN'T HAPPEN,“ the sheriff said, his hands on his hips, looking at the manila folders and papers on my floor, the prise marks where a screwdriver had sprung the locks on the drawers in my desk and file cabinet. ”We have to investigate the burglary of our own department.“
It was 8 A.M. Monday morning and raining hard outside. The sheriff had just come into the office. I'd been there since seven.
”What's missing?“ he asked.
”Nothing that I can see. The files on Marsallus and Delia Landry are all over the floor, but they didn't take anything.“
”What about Helen's files?“
”She can't find her spare house key. She's going to have her locks changed today,“ I said.
He sat down in my swivel chair.
”Do you mind?“ he said.
”Not at all.“ I began picking up the scattered papers and photographs from the floor and arranging them in their case folders.
He took a breath. ”All right, Wally says the cleaning crew came in about eleven last night. They vacuumed, waxed the floors, dusted,
did the rest rooms, and left around two A.M. He's sure it was the regular bunch.“
”It probably was.“
”Then who got in here?“
”My guess is somebody else wearing the same kind of uniform came in and picked the locks, probably right after the cleaning crew left. Nobody pays much attention to these guys, so the only people who might have recognized the impostors were gone.“
The sheriff picked up my phone and punched a number.
”Come down to Dave's office a minute,“ he said into the receiver. After he hung up he leaned one elbow on the desk and pushed a thumb into the center of his forehead. ”This makes me madder than hell. What's this country coming to?“
Wally opened my office door. He was a tall, fat man, with hypertension and a florid face and a shirt pocket full of cellophane-wrapped cigars.
He was at the end of his shift and his eyes had circles under them.
”You're sure everybody on the cleaning crew was gone by two A.M.?“ the sheriff said.
”Pretty sure. I mean after they went out the front door the hall down here was dark and I didn't hear nothing.“
”Think about it, Wally. What time exactly did the last cleaning person leave?“ the sheriff said.
”I told you, two A.M.“ or a minute or two one side or another of it.”
“They all left together?” the sheriff said.
“The last guy out said good night at two A.M.”
“Was it the last guy or the whole bunch?” I asked.
He fingered the cigars in his pocket and stared into space, his eyes trying to concentrate.
“I don't remember,” he said.
“Did you know the guy who said good night?” I asked.
“He walked by me with a lunch pail and a thermos. A shooting came in two minutes earlier. That's how I knew the time. I wasn't thinking about the guy.”