The New Iberia Blues (Dave Robicheaux 22)

Without pause I cuffed him and began reading him his rights.

“I’m not a sex offender,” he said. “Where do you come off with that?”

“I’m going to walk you to the couch and sit you down,” I said. “Which bedroom is yours?”

“At the end of the hall. Why are you interested in my bedroom?”

“Our search warrant is limited to part of the house,” I said.

“Did you hear what I said? I’m not a sex offender. I have never been charged with a sexual offense.”

I eased him down on the leather couch. He was barefoot. The tops of his feet were laced with green veins.

“Under Louisiana law, a sex offender in another state has to register here as soon as he takes up residence, even though the charge in the other state has fallen into limbo,” I said. “The statutory beef you skated on in California would be considered a ‘deferred’ charge in Louisiana. Deferred offenders have to register. You pissed on your shoes, Mr. Butterworth.”

“I want to call my attorney,” he said.

“You can call from lockup,” I said.

“Mr. Butterworth?” Bailey said.

He looked up. His forehead and pate were tan and greasy, the pupils of his eyes like black marbles.

“Are you high?” she said.

“Me?” he replied. “Who cares? I have prescriptions for mood modifiers.”

“You’re an intelligent man,” she said. “You know we’re not here about that statutory business of twelve years ago.”

“Then why say you are?” he asked.

“Our problem is the young woman on the cross, and an indigent man hanged like a piece of rotted meat in a shrimp net, and a deputy sheriff who had his esophagus and larynx and lungs slowly punctured and ripped apart with a baton,” she said. “Your history indicates that you have sadistic inclinations. If you were in our position, whom would you be talking to now?”

“Nice try, love,” he said.

“Don’t speak to me in that fashion,” she said. “Where were you in the early a.m. on Monday?”

“Asleep. In my bedroom. Desmond will confirm that. Was that when the deputy consummated his appointment in Samarra?”

“Stay with him,” I said to Bailey.

I stepped out on the deck and called Desmond’s cell phone. The wind was hot and full of spray and the smell of salt and seaweed. Desmond picked up on the first ring.

“This is Dave,” I said. “We’re serving two warrants at your house. One on Butterworth’s living area and one on Butterworth.”

“You’re kidding,” Desmond said.

“He says he was asleep in his

bedroom in the early morning yesterday. Is he lying?” There was no answer. I put the phone to my other ear. “Did you hear me?”

“He went to bed early Sunday night. His door was closed when I got up in the morning.”

“Did you see him?”

“I had to meet some guys with the rain tower in Lafayette. I left at about six-thirty.”

“So you don’t know if he was in the bedroom or not?”