“None of this explains the tarot,” Bailey said. “Or the way Hilary Bienville died. I think our killer is driven by rage and the motivation is sexual. The implications of the baton down Devereaux’s throat are hard to ignore.”
“The mayor’s office and the chamber of commerce say our tourism has dropped probably fifty percent,” Helen said. “The mayor asked me this morning about our ‘progress.’ I didn’t tell him Smiley is back. Are you sure you saw him, Dave?”
“What kind of question is that?” I said.
“Frenchie Lautrec was in my office this morning. He says you beat the crap out of him.”
“Why’s he telling you that now?” I said.
“He’s dumping in his pants.”
“Why?” I said.
“He’s not big on sharing.”
“We gave him a uniform and a badge and power over defenseless people,” I said. “He’s a coward. That’s why he’s afraid. Not because of me.”
“You don’t look like you had a lot of sleep last night,” she said.
“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “What if Bailey and I go down to Cameron Parish?”
“Have at it,” she replied.
• • •
BAILEY CHECKED OUT a cruiser and lit it up, and we were at the motel in less than two hours. The sky was lidded with rain clouds, lead-colored, the wind blowing out of the south, the waves filled with yellow sand and seaweed and swelling over a dock that resembled a torn spinal cord. The motel owner took us to Tillinger’s room. The lock had been jimmied, and the interior of the room was crisscrossed with footprints, probably from cops at the scene. The owner pushed open the bathroom door. He was a small, nervous man who wore a tie and a white shirt and stank of cigarettes smoked in a closed room.
“You can see the two holes in the curtain,” he said. “The bullets hit the wall by the window. They left the shower running. It almost ran my tank empty.”
“What kind of vehicle did your guest drive?” I said.
“A truck like a painter or plumber uses. Full of dents.”
“Where is it?” Bailey said.
“The cops come back and towed it off,” he said. “They say this guy broke out of a prison hospital. He killed his family.”
I showed him a picture of Tillinger.
“That’s him,” the owner said. “Who’s gonna pay for all this?”
“All what?” Bailey said.
“The holes in the wall. The rug. The shower curtain. The door. My water bill.”
“How long was our guy with you?” I asked.
“Two weeks and three days. This is the state’s fault.”
“What is?” I said.
“The guy running loose. Vandalizing people’s property. The three guests that checked out when they saw cops all over the place.”
“We’ll look around a bit and let you know when we leave,” I said.
“Look at that lock,” he said, glaring at the doorjamb as he walked out. “Don’t mess up this room any more than it is.”
“You got it,” I said.