“It looked more and more like arson and homicide. Then an ACLU lawyer showed up and began looking at the evidence. The guy who called himself a fire inspector wasn’t certified and had little experience in arson investigation. The accelerant was a can of charcoal lighter that somebody had left next to the portable barbecue pit on the gallery. There was no accelerant trail in the hall. Also, the heat marks on the baseboards were probably caused by an explosion of flame from the stairwell, not from a fire that started on the first floor.
“The defense lawyer was from the ACLU and went over like elephant turds in a punch bowl.”
Customers at other tables turned and looked at us.
“What’s your opinion?” I said.
“It doesn’t matter. I should have called 911 when I saw a guy in jailhouse whites bail off the train.”
“We can’t be sure the guy was Tillinger. Why would he jump off in the Mermentau River? Why wouldn’t he keep going until he was in Florida?”
“I checked that out. There were some gandy dancers working on the track. He could see them from the top of the boxcar. Helen is pretty hot about this, isn’t she?”
“You’re a good cop, Clete. She knows that.”
“I’m not a cop. I blew it.”
“Don’t say that. Not now. Not ever.”
He looked at nothing. The whites of his eyes were shiny and tinged with a pink glaze. He glanced up at the air-conditioning vent. “It’s too cold in here. Let’s take a walk. I feel like I walked through cobwebs. Sorry about the way Travis talked to you. He was a bar of soap in the shower at Huntsville.”
• • •
AS ALWAYS, I walked to work the next morning. Desmond Cormier was waiting for me in the shady driveway that led past the city library and the grotto devoted to the mother of Jesus. He was sitting in the passenger seat of a Subaru convertible with California plates driven by Antoine Butterworth.
Desmond got out and shook my hand. His friend winked at me. “I have to talk with you, Dave,” Desmond said.
I didn’t answer. Butterworth lifted a gold-tipped cigarette from the car’s ashtray, took one puff, and flipped it into the flower bed surrounding the grotto.
“I feel so foolish,” Desmond said. He was wearing tennis shorts and a yellow T-shirt and a panama straw hat. “About that business with the telescope and the woman on the cross. My right eye is weak and I have a cataract on the left. That’s why I didn’t see her. I should have explained.”
“How about your friend there? He didn’t see her, either.”
“It’s just his way,” Desmond said. “He’s contrary. He’s been in a couple of wars. Somalia and the old Belgian Congo. You’d find him quite a guy if you’d give him a chance. Have lunch with us.”
“Another time.”
“Dave, you were one of the few I looked up to.”
“Few what?”
“The regular ebb and flow.”
“There’s some pretty good people here, Desmond.”
“See you around, I guess.”
“You ever hear of a guy named Hugo Tillinger?” I asked.
“No. Who is he?”
“An escaped convict. He knew the dead woman. He may be in the vicinity.”
“I wish I could be of help,” he said. “This is an awful thing.”
“Before you go—that still shot you have on your wall of Henry Fonda standing on the roadside saying goodbye to Clementine?”
“What about it?”