A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

Excuse my digression. My real problem was the postage stamps on Firpo’s shoe. I would have to show them to the locals. I would also have to tell them where I thought they came from.

Just as the first homicide detective arrived, I saw Father Julian standing by the front entrance and walked over to him. “Let’s go outside,” I said.

“Why?” he said, looking at the paramedics bringing in the gurney.

“It’s important.”

“Who was hurt?”

“Eddy Firpo. He wasn’t hurt. He was murdered.”

“The lawyer with Mark Shondell?”

“Come outside. Don’t argue. We don’t have much time.”

Naturally, he resisted. I took him by the arm and walked him through the door. The wind was cold and damp and smelled of the chain of lakes north of the campus. “Were you carrying some collectible postage stamps tonight?” I said.

“No.”

“You didn’t buy some in Baton Rouge for your collection?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“There were three stamps stuck to Firpo’s shoe.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“How many people in Baton Rouge bring valuable historical postage stamps into a nightclub?”

“Are you saying I’m involved with this man’s death?”

“My opinion is irrelevant,” I said. “It’s those cops in there we need to worry about. If there’s anything you need to tell me, now’s the time.”

“What did the stamps look like?”

“I saw some Latin or Italian words on them. One stamp was postmarked 1891.”

The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes drained of color. “I didn’t bring any stamps into this club.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay, what?” he said.

“I believe you. If the cops question you, tell them what you just said. Then say nothing else. If they press you, tell them you want a lawyer.”

“I don’t need one,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Why did you react when I mentioned the 1891 stamp?”

He paused. “I have an 1891 Monaco stamp at home.”

“Get in your car and drive back to New Iberia,” I said. “Don’t talk to anyone until I call you.”

“What’s happening here, Dave?”

“Everything will be fine,” I replied. “I promise.”

Want to know what a pompous jerk sounds like? I had just outdone myself.