The New Iberia Blues (Dave Robicheaux 22)

“What did the exterminator look like?”

“White, medium height, stocky, black curly hair, unshaved.”

“From around here?”

“Texas or Mississippi.”

“What kind of vehicle did he drive?”

“An SUV, lot of mud on it, Louisiana tag.”

“Remember the number?”

“I didn’t pay it any mind. I didn’t have any reason to.”

“Quit dancing around the problem, Axel. You hired an illegal sprayer.”

“Oh, I’ll live in remorse over that.” He bent down to see under the window shade. “What’s that bitch doing?”

“You call her that again and I’ll take your head off.”

“Try it. Either here or anywhere else.” He pointed at his cheek. “I haven’t forgotten what you did in the restroom. That one isn’t going away.”

I closed my notebook and clicked on a photo in my iPhone. “You recognize this guy?”

“That’s him, the exterminator.”

“That’s Hugo Tillinger.”

“The escapee? Why’s he after me?”

“Did you know Lucinda Arceneaux?”

“I saw her around, maybe. She was a do-gooder or something.”

“Yeah, or something. Why would Tillinger come after you, Axel?”

“Why does somebody get hit by lightning?”

Bailey came back through the door. “You didn’t check your truck?”

“I looked out the window. It was all right. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Sorry I have to tell you this,” she said. “You have four slashed tires. Your seats and headliner and door panels are slashed. There’s an empty sugar sack by your gas cap. The ignition was on, but the engine had died. The hood is still warm. The engine must have run quite a while.”

“The fuck?” Axel said.

She dropped the keys in his palm, releasing them high enough so her hand didn’t touch his. She gazed at him silently, in a benign way, as if staring at a stranger in a casket.

“What’s going on?” he said. “Why is this happening? Why am I getting treated like I’m the stink on shit?”

“Tillinger had a reason for doing this,” I said. “You know what it is. Want to tell us?”

“Get out of here,” he said.

“Gladly,” I said.

“What are you looking at?” he said to Bailey.