The Tin Roof Blowdown (Dave Robicheaux 16)

I went to the office and told Helen what had happened, her face clouding as she listened, her hand opening and closing on a wadded-up piece of paper. “You give this to the FBI,” she said.

“I don’t think that’s the way to go.”

“You do it and you do it now, Dave. Now, get out of here.” I couldn’t blame her.

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OTIS BAYLOR got out of jail on bond and was promptly fired by his insurance company. On the same day he was fired, he became a self-appointed peripatetic counselor to anyone filing a storm-damage claim against his former employer or, for that matter, against any insurance company. He held meetings with home owners in a coffee shop and taught them how to phrase the language in their claims and how to file suit when their claims were unfairly denied. Trees were blown down by wind, not floated against a house by a tidal surge. Structural collapse was caused by twisters, not by flooding. Mold was caused by driving rain after wind had blown out the windows. Lightning exploded the electrical system and curled the walls and split the foundation, not water.

The words “water,” “flood,” “tidal,” and “surge” did not exist.

On Wednesday I saw him on the street, down by Clete’s office, his manner strangely composed for a man whose life was hanging in shreds. His shirt pocket was full of ballpoint pens, his upper torso broad and solid inside his clothes. “You find what you were lo

oking for at my house?” he asked.

We were in the shade of a live oak that grew out of the sidewalk, and the wind was blowing leaves along the concrete. “No, we didn’t, but other people may give it a try,” I said.

“They can have at it,” he said.

“Courtney Degravelle probably had the same kind of casual attitude.”

“The lady down the street?”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“She was murdered. So was Andre Rochon. They were both abducted, tortured, and murdered.”

He was absolutely still, his tie fluttering slightly against the pin that held it to his shirt.

“Who did it?”

“Maybe Sidney Kovick’s people. Maybe some international guys. Whoever they are, they’re well organized.”

He looked ashen. “I knew Ms. Degravelle. She was a nice lady. She was tortured to death?”

“She died of a coronary. But, yes, she was tortured terribly.”

“My family is at risk, isn’t it?”

“I can’t say that for sure.”

“I’ve seen this man Bledsoe, the private investigator, around town. He’s involved in this, isn’t he?”

“You’ve seen him in the last few days?”

“I saw him on the street before I was arrested. You think he’s involved in Ms. Degravelle’s death?”

“We’re not sure.”

“This never ends, does it?”

“I’m going to say something of a personal nature to you, Mr. Baylor. You’re a believer. As such, you know it’s us against them. The contest is never over, the field never quite ours.”

I guess my statement was grandiloquent, perhaps foolish. He looked at me with an expression that was as flat as a painting on a signboard. Then he walked away without saying good-bye, crossing the street through traffic that had to swerve around him.

But unbeknown to Otis, he had just done something that convinced me he was not a killer. He had shown no interest in the death of Andre Rochon, a man who had probably raped his daughter. Those who seek vengeance will accept the state’s invitation to witness the execution of their tormentors, in the old days by electrocution, today by lethal injection, but they get no rest and to the end of their days are haunted by the specter of an enemy who is ironically now safe and beyond their grasp.