A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“You got me,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “Neither one of them was real bright.”

“Don’t know anyone who might want to do this to them?”

I shook my head and looked out at the bay.

“Wish you had your shield back, Dave.”

“I’m not a big loss to the department.”

&nb

sp; “You’re not holding back on me, are you?”

“No, sir,” I said.

Eli was a good guy but not someone you talked with about the realities of the system we served and the corruption that hovered on its edges. I moved upwind from the body parts that had been poured from the barrel. I tried not to think about how these men had died. Were they alive when they were cut up? Did they weep? Did they betray each other? I had seen men cry out for their mothers in a battalion aid station. Did these men do the same?

“What are you thinking about?” Eli asked.

“Nothing worth talking about.”

“What are you not telling me, podna?”

“These guys worked for Mark Shondell. Talk to him if you like.”

There was a beat. “Mr. Shondell is involved in this?”

I didn’t answer. Eli’s face had gone empty. “Dave, I’m axing you again. We’re talking about the Mr. Shondell that lives in New Iberia?”

“The one and only.”

He looked past me at the levee. His eyes were dead. Then he saw an automobile coming on the levee. “There’s the coroner now. You been real he’pful. Coming out and all. I’ll be checking wit’ you later.”

* * *

THE NEXT EVENING Clete called me from New Orleans. It was dark outside, the rain drumming so hard on the roof I could hardly hear his voice. “Hey!” he said.

“Hey, what?”

“A musician on Bourbon told me Johnny Shondell and Isolde Balangie were recording for three days in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. A place called Fame Studios.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How?” he asked.

“Penelope Balangie told me.”

“She called you?”

“She was in New Iberia.”

“What’s going on, big mon?”

“Nothing. End of subject,” I said. “You heard about those two PIs?”

“Yeah, I was all broke up.”

“Has anybody tried to question you?”