A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“No offense? You drop flowers in a woman’s face, then give her five seconds to decide if she wants to live a lifetime with you?”

“Maybe I’ll have a short lifespan.”

“You’re doing this to get rid of me, aren’t you?”

“No, but I wonder why you’ve lived all these years with a Mafia gutter rat. An uptown one, but still a gutter rat.”

“I’ve told you. Others are dependent upon our families.”

“I think that’s pure rot. You’re a grand and charitable woman who befriended a man in a time of need. It was an honor to be part of your life.”

“Don’t go.”

“Got to do it. You deserve a better man than the likes of me.”

But I couldn’t move, and I didn’t know why.

“Second thoughts?”

“You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I’d like to kill Adonis Balangie. Know why?”

“No.”

“I know he’s had you. I also know you’ve lied about it. It’s not the man, it’s the lie that killed us, Penelope.”

I got in my truck and dropped the keys. I couldn’t put the key in the ignition. When I finally drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror. She was still standing in front of the hotel, the brim of her hat wilted on either side of her face. I don’t think I ever felt worse in my life.

* * *

CHRISTMAS CAME AND went. The days were warm and cool at the same time, and at night, electrified white clouds of smoke billowed from the stacks on the sugar mill. The weather seemed more a harbinger of spring than the real Louisiana winter that awaited us, one of dreary rain-darkened days that can seep into the soul.

My adopted daughter, Alafair, came home from France, then returned early to her part-time job in the bookstore at Reed. Penelope did not call. I grieved that I’d hurt her. The breakup was about Adonis, not Pen. No matter what she claimed about her marital status, she had lived with him for years. Furthermore, he was a dangerous and, I think, jealous man, and if he thought another man was taking her away, I believed he might kill her.

But my concerns with the Balangie family were about to fade quickly and be replaced by others. In mid-January, Father Julian called me at the office. “There’re two homicide detectives from Baton Rouge here. They say they have a search warrant.”

“For what?”

“It’s about my stamps.”

“Put one of the detectives on.”

The man who took the phone breathed heavily into the mouthpiece, like a heavy smoker or a consumptive. “Detective Niles,” he said. “What can I h’ep you with?”

The accent was North Louisiana or perhaps Mississippi.

“This is Detective Robicheaux,” I said. “Did you guys check in with us before you executed the search warrant?”

“We’re not required to do that.”

“Most law enforcement people consider it a professional courtesy.”

“That’s why you blew the Firpo homicide scene before I could interview you?” he said.

He had me. “I’m on my way, and I’ll be at your disposal.”

“Noted,” he said. “And not needed.”

He broke the connection.