Robicheaux (Dave Robicheaux 21)

I knew nothing of screenplays and had not read Levon’s book about his ancestor. “Sounds like an interesting story.”

“It would make a great independent film.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I didn’t ask permission.”

“Do high school kids have to ask an author’s permission to write a book report about the author’s work?”

“It isn’t a legal problem unless I go to a producer or director with it or pretend that I represent Levon. I just thought he might be touchy.”

“Just tell him what you’re doing. If he doesn’t like it, put the project aside.”

“You don’t think he’d mind?”

“He’s an admirer of your work. He’ll probably be happy.”

“How you feeling?” she said.

“Fine.”

She searched my face. “No, you’re not. You didn’t sleep.”

“I’ve had worse problems.”

“You didn’t kill that fellow, Dave.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I know you. Your war has always been with yourself, not others. I’m going to find out who’s behind this.”

“Bad idea. And lay off the analysis, will you?”

“There are people who hate you and will do whatever they can to destroy you. It’s foolish to pretend otherwise.”

“I don’t know how my fingerprints got on Dartez’s window glass. Outside of the crime scene, I’d never seen his truck except at his house. I didn’t touch it.”

“I don’t care if your prints were on it or not,” she said. “You didn’t kill him. You get those thoughts out of your head.”

She stared at me boldly, as though words and righteous anger could change reality.

* * *

THAT SAME MORNING, Clete put down the top on his Caddy, placed his saltwater rod and reel and an icebox load of beer and food into the backseat, and headed for the Gulf by way of Jennings and the trailer home of Kevin Penny. The shed that housed Penny’s dirt bike was scorched by the fire I had set; the curtains were closed on the trailer’s windows; there was no sound or movement inside. Clete got out of the car and picked up several pieces of gravel and pinged them one at a time against the trailer.

Penny opened the door in his pajamas, his eyes rheumy, his face unshaved. There was a knot above one eye and an angular orange and purple bruise across his face where I had caught him with the pool cue. “What do you think you’re doing, asshole?”

“Want to go fishing?” Clete replied.

“Are you off your nut?”

“Have a beer.”

Penny stepped out on the stoop, looking both ways. He was barefoot. A young woman hovered in the shadows behind him, peeking over his shoulder.

“Where’s your friend?” he asked.

“Which friend?”