Robicheaux (Dave Robicheaux 21)

“I’m with you on that.”

The room was silent. Helen cleared her throat. A tree limb brushed against the window.

“What are you holding back?” he asked me.

“The last time I talked to Levon, he didn’t mention Nightingale not being in jail; that was the kind of thing I expected him to say. It was almost like he didn’t care.”

“That’s perception, not evidence,” he said.

“How many sexual assault cases are not about perception?” I said.

“Levon Broussard spat in Nightingale’s face at Iberia General. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“That was then. This is now.”

“You’re muddying the water, Dave,” he said. “I don’t understand why. Helen, could I speak to Dave alone, please?”

“Powder my nose?” she said.

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Your ass,” she said, and left the room.

Score one for Helen Soileau.

After she was gone, Lala put the pages of my report back into a folder and leaned forward, his face bladed with color, his nose cut out of tin. “The investigation into the Dartez homicide has been the most unusual in my career.”

“Really?” I said.

“Don’t be clever with me, Dave. There’s a cloud over your head, and nothing we do seems to get rid of it. The department and my office have been taking your weight.”

“Then stop doing it.”

“It’s not a time to be gallant. Labiche lifted your prints on the broken glass from the driver’s side of the truck. That detail will not go away. Unless you’re willing to make it go away.”

“What are you hinting at?”

“You were at the Dartez house and could have touched his truck. Or maybe on another occasion.” He paused, then said, “Am I right?”

“I could have.”

“You did or you didn’t?”

I could hear a motorboat on the bayou. I wanted to get up and walk to the window and float away, above the picnic shelters and trees and children playing on swing sets and seesaws. “I did not touch Dartez’s vehicle at his home. I cannot explain the presence of my fingerprints on the glass.”

I could hear myself breathing in the silence. I counted the seconds. I got up to fourteen, then restarted the count, my heart twisting.

“You think you did it?” he asked. “Just say it. Let’s end this crap.”

“I think I’m capable of it.”

“You truly mean that? You would kill a man with your bare hands?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you done with your drinking?”

I could feel my control slipping, my old enemy, childhood rage, surfacing once again. “It’s not my drinking—” I began. I saw a red glow behind my eyes and heard a popping sound in my ears. I started over. “No, sir, I cannot swear that I’m done. No drunk can.”