Two uniformed deputies walked past us and went inside.
“Depends on how you read it,” she said. “We’ve got a witness.”
“To the Dartez homicide?”
“A young black guy. He says he was parked in the trees with a girl and saw it.”
“Why’d he wait to come forward?” I said.
“The girl is married. But not to him. Also, the girl may not be a girl.”
I couldn’t get her words straight in my head. “What gave him the change of heart?”
“The minister at his church told him he’d better tell us what he saw or he’s going to hell.”
I was hardly listening. My heart was gelatin. Sometimes witnesses who come out of the woodwork have had too much time to think and give a distorted account. Minority witnesses are often intimidated and seek to please, particularly when questioned by someone like Spade Labiche. But last and foremost, I might have to accept an unpleasant truth, namely, that I was a murderer.
“Why’d you stop me out here?”
“Because I haven’t told Labiche yet. I’m going to interview the kid at his home. I’m taking Labiche with me. I’m giving you the option to come along.”
“You’ll taint the investigation.”
“Hear me out,” she said. “You have to stay in the vehicle. The witness will not see you.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Professionally, you don’t have the right to be there,” she said. “Ethically, you do. I have a photo lineup.”
“I’m in it?”
“Big-time,” she replied.
* * *
HELEN DROVE THE cruiser out to a small frame house by Bayou Benoit, with me in the back and Labiche in the passenger seat. Labiche gazed out the window at the new cane bending in the fields. “What’s this guy’s name again?”
“Baby Cakes Babineau,” Helen said.
“He takes it in the ass?” Labiche said.
“Lose those kinds of references, Detective,” she said.
“Excuse me,” he said.
We pulled in to the dirt driveway. Helen and Labiche got out, Labiche tightening the tuck in his shirt with his thumbs. His badge holder and a holstered .38 hung from his belt. “Not coming?” he said to me.
“I know I’m in good hands,” I said.
He leaned down to the window. “Maybe you and me will have a private talk about all this, Robicheaux. I think you’ve had a free pass too long.”
“Do your job and get out of my face,” I said.
“Fuck you,” he replied.
I got out on the opposite side of the cruiser and walked into the yard, under a pecan tree, and picked up a handful of pecans, still in the husks, and chunked them at the tree trunk, a tuning fork trembling in my chest.
A heavyset older woman with enormous calves and hips came out the back door and began hanging wash. I walked up behind her. “Are you Ms. Babineau?”