“That’s what the preacher said. He visited Tillinger in jail.”
“That means he didn’t come here just to see Lucinda Arceneaux,” I said.
“Hard to say,” Clete replied. “The preacher said Tillinger wanted to get clean of his past.”
“Okay, think about it. We’ve got all kinds of information that doesn’t seem to connect with itself. Russians building nuclear reactors, money laundering in Malta, greaseballs out of Miami, Nicky Scarfo’s old crowd in Jersey. So what’s the common denominator?”
“Desmond Cormier doesn’t care where he gets his money,” Clete said. “What’s unusual about that? Casino owners and marijuana growers pay millions in taxes. The IRS doesn’t want that kind of money?”
“Except the issue is not the money,” I said. “The issue is about a guy who hates this area and hates the people in it and most of all hates women who are a challenge to him.”
Clete looked into space as though seeing the bodies of Bella Delahoussaye and Hilary Bienville. He came to the table and sat down but didn’t touch his food. “No, it goes deeper than that. The guy put a rose and a chalice in Bella’s hands?”
“That’s right.”
“How’s that fit with the guy who hates this area?”
“He was offering a sacrifice.”
“To what?”
“To himself, although he doesn’t know that.”
“And the only real evidence y’all have is the black gym bag from Cormier’s garage?”
“Yeah, with Lucinda Arceneaux’s shoe and blouse inside.”
“And Cormier still says he doesn’t know who owns the bag?”
“Yep.”
Clete started eating, his eyes lidless. “He’s got a Maltese cross tattooed on his ankle?”
I nodded.
“There’s another possibility in all this, Dave. You’re not going to like it.”
“What?”
“Smiley Wimple. This guy kills people like other people change their socks.”
“Wrong guy,” I said.
“A guy who fries people with
a flamethrower is the wrong guy?”
“He covered your back a couple of times, and now you feel guilty about it,” I said.
“You think Cormier is really behind all this?”
“I can’t get him out of my head,” I said.
Clete pushed away his plate and drank from his coffee. “How do you want to play it?”
“Dust ’em or bust ’em. The choice is theirs.”
“But that’s not what you’re thinking about, is it?” he said.