Robicheaux (Dave Robicheaux 21)

“Show me your hands.”

“They’re scraped.”

Her lips were crimped, her chest rising and falling.

“I’ve beaten them against brick walls when I was drunk,” I said. “It doesn’t matter what the issue is. I always hurt myself.”

“And a few others. Shit!”

Cormac Watts walked toward us, the ambulance following him, the weeds whispering under the bumper. Helen turned her back to me. “What do you have, my favorite pathologist?” she said to him.

“The door was locked,” Cormac said. “Somebody dragged him through the broken window, then went to work on him. I’d say he died of a broken neck and respiratory failure or maybe massive cranial damage. I don’t see any marks characteristic of a weapon, such as a hammer or tire iron.”

“You didn’t bother to share that with Labiche?”

“I thought I’d save it for y’all.”

“How long has the victim been dead?” she asked.

“Nine or ten hours.” He paused and exhaled loudly.

“What?” she said.

“The guy who did this must have been on meth. My guess is he did it with his bare hands. This is somebody who could eat his own pain while he flat tore somebody else apart. Know anybody like that around here?”

I DIDN’T GO to a noon meeting. I went to the bank and applied for a loan against my house. My house was a humble one, built of cypress in the late nineteenth century, but the one-acre lot was located on one of the most scenic streets in the American South. I suspected the total value was around six hundred thousand dollars.

“How much you need, Dave?” the banker asked.

“Around a quarter of a million.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll send the appraiser out. You’re not headed to Vegas, are you?”

“In a roundabout way.”

He looked a bit quizzical, then said, “Have a good one.”

I ate a ham-and-onion sandwich at home and brushed my teeth, then headed back to my office, not looking forward to the rest of the day. Helen followed me inside. “You’re off the case.”

“What?” I said.

“I’m giving the investigation to Labiche.”

I sat down behind my desk. “What’s going on?”

“Labiche interviewed Ms. Dartez. She says you called her husband last night and arranged to meet him at the convenience store and bait shop by Bayou Benoit.”

I stared at her, my scalp shrinking, a pain like a sliver of glass sliding through my bowels.

“You don’t remember?” she said.

“No.”

“Give me your cell phone.”

I handed it to her. She opened it and began clicking through my calls with her thumb. She stared into my face and folded the phone. My heart was in my throat.

“It’s clean,” she said.