Robicheaux (Dave Robicheaux 21)

“I’m a suspect in a homicide.”

His lips moved without sound.

“Yeah, it’s a bit unusual,” I said.

He looked up and down the street. “You don’t believe Rowena’s account, do you?”

“I don’t know all the circumstances.”

“She’s never been unfaithful,” he said.

The last statement was the kind no investigative cop ever wants to hear. “Has Jimmy tried to contact you or your wife?”

“Jimmy?”

“I’ve known him most of my life.”

“Yes, and you introduced him to us, and now we know him, too.”

Sometimes you just have to walk away. And that’s what I did.

“I apologize,” he said at my back.

* * *

THE PHONE WAS ringing as I came through the front door. “Hello?” I said.

It was Alafair. “Clete called. He says you’re in trouble.”

“I’ll get out of it.”

“He said you were in the bag.”

“No,” I said. “I mean I’m not drinking now.”

“You stopped going to meetings?”

“I went last night.”

“What’s this about the guy who hit Molly’s car?”

“I was in a blackout. The guy was beaten to death out by Bayou Benoit. Maybe I did it.”

The phone went silent. In the backyard, the sun and the smoke from meat fires in the park looked like spun gold in the trees. In my mind’s eye, I saw Alafair at age five, after I pulled her from a submerged plane piloted by a Maryknoll priest who was helping illegals escape the death squads in Central America. I thought about the wonderful life we’d had on the bayou.

“You never hurt anyone except in defense of yourself or someone else,” she said. “I’m flying into New Orleans tomorrow.”

“That’s not necessary, Alfenheimer.”

“Don’t call me that stupid name.”

“How’s your screenplay coming?”

“I’m writing it for people who think William Shakespeare was too wordy. How do you think it’s coming?”

“What time does your flight come in?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll rent a car. Just hold tight till I get back to New Iberia.”