Crusader's Cross (Dave Robicheaux 14)

I opened the screen and took the money from his hand. I had hoped his mission was a single-purpose one. But he remained on the gallery, gazing at the trees in the yard and the squirrels that darted across the grass. "Can I invite you in?" I said.

"Thank you," he said, and stepped inside, his eyes examining the interior of my home. "I want to hire you to find the man who murdered my daughter, Mr. Robicheaux."

"I'm a sheriff's detective, Mr. Chalons, not a private investigator."

"A man is what he does. Titles are a distraction created to deceive obtuse people. I want the monster who killed my daughter either in jail or dead."

"My fingerprints were at the crime scene. In some people's eyes I should be a suspect."

"Those might be my son's perceptions, but they're not mine. Valentine is sometimes not a good judge of character. You may have a penchant for alcohol, Mr. Robicheaux, but you're not a murderer. That's an absurdity. I know it and so do you."

"I'm complimented by your offer, but it's not an appropriate one."

"I think a degenerate or psychotic person wandered in from the highway and did this terrible thing to my daughter. But I can't seem to convince anyone else of that. Some speculate it's the Baton Rouge serial killer."

"The Baton Rouge guy abducts his victims and rapes them before killing them. Bondage is part of his M.O., as well as baiting the authorities. The guy who killed Honoria is somebody else."

He pulled at an earlobe. "I have to find out who. If nothing else, I have to exclude people who might have had opportunity or motivation," he said, glancing sideways at me. "I can't live in ignorance about the circumstances of her death. I just cannot do that. No father can."

There was no point in continuing the conversation. For a lifetime his money had bought him access and control, and now it was of no value to him.

"As you suggest, it may have been a random killing, Mr. Chalons. Deranged and faceless men wander the country. Sometimes they commit horrible crimes over a period of decades and are not caught." I made no reference to the fact a cross had been incised inside Honoria's hairline.

"So you do think that could be the case with my daughter?"

I saw what seemed a hopeful glimmer in his eye, as though I had presented him with good news. Or maybe I was reading him wrong. "I have no idea, sir," I replied.

He unhooked his hat from his finger and straightened the brim, then glanced through the back window into the yard. "Ah, the outlaw nun who's purchased you an inordinate amount of negative attention," he said.

"The outlaw nun is now my wife."

"Is that meant as a joke?"

"That's Molly Robicheaux out there, Mr. Chalons — not a nun, not an outlaw, but my wife."

"Well, she's a disciple of liberation theology and has been at odds with our government's policies in Central America, but no matter. Chacun a son gout, huh?"

He let himself out without saying goodbye, then paused on the gallery and fitted on his Panama hat. I followed him outside. "Run that statement by me again?"

"Your wife is a traitor, Mr. Robicheaux. Perhaps she's done many good deeds for the Negroes in our area, but she is nonetheless a traitor. If you choose to marry her, that's your business. I'm an old man and many of my attitudes are probably overly traditional."

I stepped close to him. "I don't wish to offend you, Mr. Chalons —" I began, a phosphorous match flaming alight somewhere in the center of my head.

"But what?"

I sucked in my cheeks and widened my eyes and looked out at the tranquility of the day. "Nothing, sir. My wife and I both wish you the very best and extend our sympathies and hope that all good things come to you and your family."

Then I rejoined Molly in the backyard and did not mention my exchange with Raphael Chalons. Tripod climbed down from his perch in the live oak, and Snuggs appeared out of the bamboo, his tail pointed straight up, as stiff as a broomstick. The four of us commenced to share breakfast at the redwood table.

When the world presents itself in the form of a green-gold playground, blessed with water and flowers and wind and centuries-old oak trees, and when you're allowed to share all these things on a fine Sunday morning with people and animals you love, why take on the burden of the spiritually afflicted?

That afternoon I jogged through City Park and saw Clete sailing a Frisbee with a bunch of black kids by the baseball diamond. He was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of swim trunks and his porkpie hat, his skin running with sweat.

"Married?" he said.

"Right. Last night. Got something smart to say?" I said.

"Know somebody a few weeks, start a shitstorm all over town, then hit the altar with about three hours planning. . . . Seems normal to me," he said.