A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

I looked at the side of his face. His eyes were half-lidded, as though he were nodding off or on downers. “You got a daughter,” he said. “You know how they get in trouble.”

Alafair didn’t get in trouble. Or at least she didn’t look for it. But I didn’t correct him. “She’s at Reed in Portland.”

“I let my daughter talk me into sending her to the University of Texas. I had to borrow the out-of-state tuition.”

I didn’t want to talk about money and college debt. You borrow it for your kids or you don’t. As I mentioned, Alafair had an academic scholarship. “You sure about the ER, Carroll?”

“Yeah, just get us to the park. I got to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, man. I can’t think straight.”

I was becoming more and more uncomfortable with Carroll’s behavior. We drove down East Main, through the tunnel of oaks that ends at the Shadows, and crossed the drawbridge and pulled under the shade trees by the rec building in the park. Carroll opened the passenger door and vomited. I went inside and bought an ice-cold Coke from the soda machine and handed it to him. He drank from the can, then wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.

“I don’t want to hear about people’s finances,” I said. “Mine are bad enough.”

“A masseur knocked up my daughter and gave her herpes. She had an abortion. Now she’s using cocaine. How can this much shit happen in six months?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m broke and I got to get her in rehab.”

I didn’t know where the conversation was going or why Carroll had chosen me to unload on. “Can I do anything?”

“I think maybe this is punishment for all the things I did in vice at NOPD. That kid I killed, the freebies from the hookers, all the flake I packed up my nose.”

“You’re not being punished for anythi

ng, Carroll. A bad guy hurt your daughter. He’s the issue, not you, not her. Tell the Man on High you’re sorry for your mistakes and you need some help down here. One day your daughter will be all right.”

He blew his nose. “Sorry I got to talking so personal.”

“I don’t think you heard me.”

“About what?”

“Talking to the Man.”

“You’re probably right, but how do you handle all this stuff in the meanwhile? Anyway, thanks for the Coke. You didn’t tell me what Rosenberg said back there?”

“Gideon Richetti is at the center of all this.”

His face turned the color of a toadstool.

Chapter Thirty-four

CLETE CALLED ME on my landline that night. The moon was up, the clouds torn like strips of black cotton, leaves and broken tree limbs floating in the Teche. A tornado had touched down outside Lake Charles. I had brought in the cats and my raccoon, Tripod. All of them were lying down on the throw rug, tails flipping, as though they were observing the events of the evening. When Alafair was home, they got on the furniture, including the breakfast table, which they covered with seat smears. Why do I mention these little guys at this juncture? Because at that moment they were the only aspects of normalcy in my life.

I picked up the phone on the third ring. “What’s the haps, Cletus?”

“I’m on the bottom of Terrebonne Parish. I could use some backup in the next twelve hours or so. I think a pile of shit is about to go down.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Adonis and his old lady are over here. I saw them at a restaurant in Houma. Mark Shondell has a house on stilts south of here. This insider guy I know says Johnny and Isolde got kidnapped by some dickheads, guys who used to run with Delmer Perkins. Guys who carry blowtorches and pliers.”

“Mark Shondell is behind the kidnapping?”