Pegasus Descending (Dave Robicheaux 15)

“We’re going to look like idiots going back t

o the grand jury on this guy for another homicide. It’s like we don’t have anyone else in the parish to charge for unsolved crimes,” she said.

“Want me to talk to Lonnie?”

“Screw Lonnie. We need to clean up our own mess.” She studied a legal pad on her desk, her fingers on her brow. “I just got off the phone with the FBI in New Orleans. They pulled a cell phone transmission out of the air on Lefty Raguza. They think he’s in Iberia or St. Martin Parish.”

“Lefty wants payback for the beating he took?”

“No, the Feds think he and Whitey Bruxal are going to try to get Whitey’s money back by peeling the skin off Trish Klein’s pretty ass.”

She saw the look on my face. “That’s the language this FBI jerk used. Don’t blame me,” she said. “Where’s Clete Purcel, Dave? Don’t lie to me, either.”

I didn’t have to lie. I didn’t know. Not exactly, anyway.

THAT NIGHT, Molly and I went to a movie and had dinner in Lafayette. The summer light was still high in the sky when we drove back home, and I could see fishermen in boats out on Spanish Lake, the cypress snags shadowing on the water against the late sun.

“You worried about Clete?” she asked.

“A little. If NOPD gets their hands on him, they’re going to put him away.”

“He’s always come through before, hasn’t he?”

“Except that’s not what he wants. He’s been committing suicide in increments his whole life. He tries to keep the gargoyles away with booze and aspirin and wonders why he always has a Mixmaster roaring in his head.”

I could feel her eyes on me. Then I felt her put away whatever it was she had planned to say.

“Buy me some ice cream?” she asked.

“You bet,” I replied.

The next morning was Friday. I called Nig Rosewater and Wee Willie Bimstine and Clete’s offices in both New Iberia and New Orleans and was told that Clete was out of town and that his whereabouts were unknown. The only semblance of cooperation came from Alice Werenhaus, the part-time secretary and former nun at the office on St. Ann in the Quarter.

“He’s fine, Mr. Robicheaux. He doesn’t want you to worry,” he said.

“Then why does he keep his cell turned off?”

“May I be frank?”

“Please.”

“He doesn’t want you compromised. Now stop picking on him.”

“I think his life may be in danger, Miss Alice.”

She was quiet a long time. “Mr. Purcel will always be Mr. Purcel. He won’t change for either of us. I’ll do what I can. You have my word.”

So much for that.

My other ongoing problem was Cesaire Darbonne. I had gone bond for a man who was probably innocent of the murder he was accused of committing and guilty of a homicide for which he wasn’t charged. The greater irony was that the boy Cesaire had probably murdered was not responsible for his daughter’s death and the man he had not killed was.

After lunch I went to Lonnie Marceaux’s office and told him everything I had learned about Cesaire Darbonne’s probable guilt in the murder on Tony Lujan.

“Nobody can screw up a case this bad. Are you drinking again?” he said.

“Glad to see you’re handling this in the right spirit, Lonnie. No, I’m not drinking. But since you went full tilt on insisting we indict an innocent ian for Bello Lujan’s death, I thought I should drop by and give you a heads-up.”

“Me a heads-up?”