“Inviting me out. For supper. This evening,” she said. “Thanks for asking.”
Chapter Four
DURING THE NEXT three days I talked with Lucinda Arceneaux’s employer and fellow employees at the catering service in Los Angeles, and her former roommate, and a boy in Westwood who used to go to the public library with her. They all spoke of her good character and gentle disposition. None had an explanation for her disappearance.
The Texas Department of Criminal Justice referred me to three correctional officers who had known Hugo Tillinger. Two had no opinion of him; the third, an old-time gunbull, said, “Tillinger? Yeah, I knew that lying son of a bitch. Turn your back on him and he’d gut you from your belly button to your chin. Anything else you want to know?”
On Friday I went into Helen’s office and told her what I had.
“What are your feelings about Tillinger?” she said.
“I don’t see him as a viable suspect in the murder of Lucinda Arceneaux. An escaped convict in a prison uniform would have more on his mind than committing a ritualistic homicide with a cross and a hypodermic needle.”
Helen looked at a legal pad on her desk. “There were break-ins at three fish camps not far from Cypremort Point. A white shirt with blue tabs on it was found half buried by a boathouse. He’s here. The question is why.”
“He jumped on the first freight he could find going out of Texas.”
“What if he had a partner?” she said.
“We’re looking at the wrong guy, Helen.”
“He burned his wife and daughter to death. Don’t tell me he’s the wrong guy.”
“I want to talk to Desmond Cormier and Antoine Butterworth again.”
“You’ve got a bias, Streak. You don’t like Hollywood people.”
“That isn’t true. I don’t like anyone who thinks he’s entitled.”
She twiddled her ballpoint on her desk blotter. “Okay. By the way, you have a new partner.”
“Pardon?”
“Her name is Bailey Ribbons.”
“Who is Bailey Ribbons?”
“I hired her two days ago. She’s twenty-eight years old. She was a middle school teacher in New Orleans and has a graduate degree in psychology. She was a dispatcher with NOPD for eighteen months.”
“That’s her entire experience?”
“What she doesn’t know, you’ll teach her.”
“Is this an affirmative-action situation?” I said.
“I hired her because of her intelligence. I’m going to get a lot of criticism for that. I don’t need it from you. Stay here.”
She left the office and returned three minutes later with a woman who seemed to have walked out of a motion picture that had little connection to the present. She had dark brown hair and clear skin and eyes like light trapped in sherry, and she wore black shoes and a white blouse with a frilly collar buttoned at the throat and a skirt that hung well below the knees. What struck me most were her warm smile and her erect posture. I felt strange, even awkward and boyish, when I took her hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Robicheaux,” she said.
“You, too, Miss Bailey,” I said. “Call me Dave.”
“Hi, Dave.”
I started to speak but couldn’t remember what I’d wanted to say.
“Bring Bailey up to date on the Arceneaux investigation,” Helen said.