Cadillac Jukebox (Dave Robicheaux 9)

"Not in the daylight, anyway . . . Check out who just came in the door."

Persephone Green wore a black see-through evening dress and a sapphire and diamond necklace around her throat. Her shoulders were as white and smooth as moonstone.

"How do you know Dock Green's wife?" I said.

"I was in uniform with NOPD when she shot a prowler at her home in the Garden District. She shot him five times."

Persephone Green paused by the banquet room door, her black sequined bag dangling from her wrist by a spidery cord.

"You get around," she said to me. Her hair was pulled straight back and threaded with a string of tiny diamonds.

"Looking after the common good, that sort of thing," I said.

"We'll all sleep more secure, I'm sure." Her gaze roved indolently over Helen's face. "You have a reason for staring at me, madam?"

"No, ma'am."

"I know you?"

"I was the first officer at the scene when you popped that black guy by your swimming pool. I pulled his head out of the water," Helen said.

"Oh yes, how could I forget? You're the charm school graduate who made some accusations."

"Not really. I probably have poor night vision. I was the only one who saw a powder burn by the guy's eyebrow," Helen said.

"That's right, you made quite a little squeaking noise, didn't you?"

"The scene investigator probably had better eyesight. He's the one took early retirement the same year and bought a liquor store out in Metairie," Helen said.

"My, what a clever sack of potatoes."

Persephone Green walked on inside the banquet room. The back of her evening dress was an open V that extended to the lower tip of her vertebrae.

"I'm going up on the roof," Helen said.

"Don't let her bother you."

"Tomorrow I'm off this shit. The old man doesn't like it, he can have my shield."

I watched her walk through the crowd toward the service elevator, her back flexed, her arms pumped, her expression one that dissipated smiles and caused people to glance away from her face.

I walked through the meeting rooms and the restaurant and bar area. Karyn LaRose was dancing by the bandstand with Jerry Joe Plumb. Her evening dress looked like frozen pink champagne poured on her body. She pulled away from him and came up to me, her face flushed and hot, her breath heavy with the smell of cherries and bourbon.

"Dance with me," she said.

"Can't do it on the job."

"Yes you will." She slipped her hand into mine and held it tightly between us. She tilted her chin up; a private thought, like a self-indulgent memory, seemed to light her eyes.

"It looks like you're enjoying yourself," I said.

"I know of only one moment that feels as good as winning," she said. She smiled at the corners of her mouth.

"Better have some coffee, Karyn."

"You're a pill. But you're going to end up in Baton Rouge just the same, honey bunny."

"Adios," I said, and pulled loose from her and went out the side door and into the parking lot.