Wexler.
“Have I upset you?” she asked.
“You’ve been very helpful,” I said, the backs of my legs shaking. “Thank you.”
I hurried away, my stomach sick.
Chapter Forty-One
I CALLED ALAFAIR’S CELL phone again, and again it went straight to voicemail
. I called Sean.
“Yo, Dave,” he said.
“What’s your twenty?”
“Just coming back from the airport. Couldn’t find anybody who knew anything positive. One guy said he thought he saw Cormier get on a private plane, but he wasn’t sure.”
“Lou Wexler rents a place in St. Martinville, but I don’t know where. He drives a cherry-red Lamborghini. Go to the St. Martin Sheriff’s Department and find out. We ROA there.”
“You can probably beat me there.”
“I’m picking up Clete Purcel.”
“What’s the deal on Wexler?”
“I don’t know. I missed something on him. Something Clete told me. Or maybe Alafair told me. I can’t remember.”
“Copy that,” he said. “Out.”
I got into my truck and drove past the Shadows, then swung over to St. Peter’s Street and headed for Clete’s motor court. On Sundays, Clete usually washed or waxed his convertible and barbecued a pork roast or a chicken on the grill under the oaks by the bayou. If the weather was warm, he wore his knee-length Everlast boxing trunks and LSU or Tulane or Raging Cajuns sweatshirt, his upper arms the circumference of a fully pressurized fire hose. With luck, his metabolism would be free of the toxins that had impaired much of his life.
This morning, however, none of the foresaid applied. He was walking up and down in front of his cottage, cell phone to his ear, wearing a Hawaiian shirt outside his slacks; his shoes were shined, his hair wet-combed. He looked thinner, twenty years younger, wired to the eyes. I stopped the truck and got out, the engine still running. “What’s going on?”
“I was just calling you. Where’s Alafair?”
“Maybe with Lou Wexler.”
He looked into space, then back at me. “Wexler?”
“Yes.”
“I thought maybe—”
“What?”
“I’m confused. I saw Cormier drive by early this morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“How many guys around here have an expression like a skillet and look carved out of rock? I thought maybe he went to your house.”
I rarely saw fear in the face of Clete Purcel. He pinched his mouth.
“What is it?” I said.
“I just got a call from Alafair.”