“Don’t call me that name. Seriously, I hate that name,” she replied.
A TECHNICIAN FROM the Acadiana Crime Lab lifted full and partial prints from Alafair’s desk and computer but found none that matched the thumbprint Bledsoe had left on Clete’s license tag. Just before quitting time, Clete called me at the office.
“You won’t believe this. Bledsoe is back at his cottage,” he said.
“I believe it. Did you talk to him?”
“He invited me to dinner. He’s barbecuing on a grill under the trees. Jesus Christ, he just waved at me.”
I heard Clete pull the curtains.
“Somebody broke in our house today and tore up Alafair’s computer,” I said. “The perp also destroyed her work materials and put her notebooks in a waste can and urinated on them.”
“This guy is overdue for a home call.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I heard him fooling with the cell phone, as though he had walked from the window and was trying to organize his thoughts. “I got something real bad on my conscience, Streak. It’s eating my lunch,” he said.
“Courtney Degravelle’s death is not your fault, partner.”
“There’s something I didn’t tell you. We put all the insurance money in a mailbox like you suggested. I mean, almost all of it.”
He paused, waiting for my reaction. But this time I refused to fill in the blanks for him.
“See, Courtney was broke. Her insurance company was screwing her on her claim. She was already two months behind on her mortgage. She wanted to hold back a grand and wash it at a casino in Shreveport. I didn’t see the harm.”
I rubbed one temple and stared wanly out the window, stupefied by his lack of judgment.
“So that’s what she did. She and her sister drove up to Shreveport and unloaded the grand and won about seven hundred on top of it,” he said.
I didn’t want to hear it. Also, I didn’t want to fall into my old role as Clete’s enabler, either. But what do you do when your best friend is bleeding inside?
“Tommy the Whale dimed you with Sidney Kovick. Then Sidney’s goons found out you and Courtney were an item. It was easier to take her down than come after you. Washing the money didn’t have anything to do with it,” I said.
“We both know better.”
I let it go. Courtney Degravelle had fallen into the hands of men who of their own volition dwell in the Abyss. Perhaps Clete had contributed to her fate. I was his friend. She was dead and so was Andre Rochon. With luck, we or someone else would nail the guys who killed them. What else was there to say?
I HAD OTHER problems to deal with, and choices to make that no cop on the square wants to make. Ronald Bledsoe had remained untouchable. Now he had invaded my home and left his ugly stain on my daughter’s life. We could roust and threaten him, but our best efforts would be of no value. Bledsoe was in our midst for the long haul, taunting us, pressing the stone deeper into the bruise with each passing day. Is it dishonorable to fight a war under a black flag in defense of those who cannot protect themselves? I thought not. Or at least that’s what I told myself as I considered my options regarding Ronald Bledsoe. Chapter 21
I T WAS RAINING Friday night and Alafair and Mo
lly were at a movie when Otis Baylor parked his car in front of our house and knocked on my door.
“You busy, Mr. Robicheaux?” he said.
“No, sir, come in,” I said.
He sat down in a stuffed chair in our living room and looked out the window at the rain falling in the light on top of our philodendron. “I’ve given some thought to a few things I’ve said to you. My manner has been abrasive and uncalled for. I think you were trying to be as forthright as you could. I should have given you a little more credit.”
“You were under pressure—” I said.
He interrupted me. “Your daughter told Thelma about the scrape she had with this fellow Bledsoe. She also told Thelma about the break-in at your house. It was him, wasn’t it?”
“That’s my belief.”
“Alafair says you can’t do much about it.”