The New Iberia Blues (Dave Robicheaux 22)

“She was working on her genealogy,” he said. “She was an orphan. Her foster daddy is a preacher.”

“So?”

“She thought maybe she was related to a famous guy in Hollywood. She didn’t say who.”

“When you find out, tell me, will you?” I said. “I’m done here.”

“You’re a hard-nosed bastard.”

“Just self-destructive. You stole firearms out of Devereaux’s house. What do you plan to do with them?”

“Cancel the ticket of anyone who tries to take me back to Texas.”

Spoken like a real idiot, I thought. “D

on’t call here again unless you have some useful information.”

I hung up. This time he didn’t call back. Helen opened my door. “The prints from the Devereaux crime scene are no help. The door key was clean. The killer was probably wearing gloves when he went inside. Anything on your end?”

“Tillinger called. He was on a cell phone. He’s not our guy.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He’s a five-star peckerwood. What you see is what you get.”

“You don’t believe he burned his family to death?”

“If I’d been on the jury, I’d have reasonable doubt.”

“So we’ve got nothing.”

“There’s Antoine Butterworth,” I said.

“Why Butterworth?”

“His soul probably resembles the La Brea Tar Pits.”

“What are you going to bring him in on?”

“He’s a long way from his usual resources,” I replied. “Let’s see how he likes being one of the little people.”

Chapter Thirteen

I CALLED MY FRIEND the captain of the West Hollywood Station of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department and asked more specifically about Butterworth’s record. Butterworth’s reputation for deviancy was ubiquitous. But legend and legal reality don’t always coincide. Prostitutes told outrageous stories about him. One claimed he hung her from a hook and beat her bloody, but she had been in Camarillo twice and hadn’t filed charges. As gross as his behavior was, most of it seemed thespian, more adolescent and obscene than criminal.

“He’s never had to register as a sex offender?” I asked.

“Twelve years ago he got nailed on a statutory,” my friend said. “She was sixteen, although she looked twenty-five. The DA was going to put him away, but the girl got a big role in a South American film and left town.”

“Butterworth got her the role?”

“That’s how it usually works.”

“What’s the status on the charge now?”

“It doesn’t have one. The case died in the file drawer.”

“That’s all I need,” I said. “Thanks for the help.”