“It’s been a long day,” I said.
“It’s fixing to get longer.”
“If it’s business, I’ll see you tomorrow at eight A.M.”
Just then Spade Labiche came up the drive in an unmarked car. He leaned out the window. “Good news, Robicheaux. A dent on your back bumper, but no paint from the Dartez vehicle. You’re clean on the truck. It’s at the pound. Catch!” He threw my keys at me. They landed in a puddle of muddy water. “Sorry,” he said, and drove away.
I picked up the keys and wiped them with my handkerchief.
“What was that about?” Levon said.
“Departmental politics. What did you want to tell me?”
“My wife has been raped.”
The words didn’t fit the scene. The wind was blowing through the branches overhead, the moss drifting in threads to the asphalt, votive candles flickering in the grotto.
“Say again?”
“She had a flat tire. Jimmy Nightingale talked her into having a drink and got her drunk.” He saw the expression in my eyes. “What?”
“People get themselves drunk,” I said. “Where is she?”
“At home.”
“Did she go to the hospital?”
“Our doctor came to the house. Why do you ask about a hospital?”
“Can she come to the department?”
“She doesn’t want to.”
“I can understand that, Levon. But we don’t do home calls. A female officer will interview her. The surroundings will be private.”
He looked around. “I don’t know what to do.”
I couldn’t be sure if he was talking to himself or to me. “Tell me what happened.”
“She was at the grocery last night. She came outside and saw she had a flat tire. Nightingale put her spare on. They went out to the highway and had a drink.”
I could already see what a defense lawyer would do with Rowena’s story.
“I’m sorry to hear about this,” I said.
“You don’t believe her?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“She trusts people when she shouldn’t,” he said. “She thinks y’all won’t believe her. She was doing work among the poor when I met her in Venezuela. She gave her paintings to the Indians, people no one cared about.”
He waited for me to reply. I hate to handle sexual assault and child molestation cases because
the victims seldom get justice, and that’s just for starters. Adult victims are exposed to shame, embarrassment, and scorn. Often they are made to feel they warranted their fate. Defense attorneys tear them apart on the stand; judges hand out probation to men who should be shot. Sometimes the perpetrator is given bail without the court’s notifying the victim, and the victim ends up either dead or too frightened to testify. I’ve also known cops who take glee in a woman’s degradation, and it’s not coincidental that they work vice.
“I’m in the cookpot these days, Levon. I’ll do what I can for y’all.”
“You’re having some kind of trouble?”