“I always respected you and your wife, Levon. Don’t pretend I didn’t.”
“You pretend about everything, Dave. Jimmy Nightingale has all the trappings of a fascist. Tell me that’s not so.”
“He shitcanned Bobby Earl.”
“That’s because he doesn’t need him anymore,” he said. “Why don’t you genuflect before him while you’re at it?”
“See you around,” I said.
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” he replied.
* * *
I WENT TO the lab early Tuesday morning. They lifted Levon’s prints off the knife, and I took them on a card to Jennings and left them with a desk sergeant for Sherry Picard. She called me the next day. I had not given her any directions or information about the source of the latents on the knife, maybe in part because I didn’t want to confirm my own suspicions.
“They’re a match,” she said.
“With what?”
“The latents in Penny’s trailer. That’s why you sent them, right?”
“Correct.”
“Whose are they?” she asked.
“Levon Broussard’s.”
“The author?” she said.
“Yep.”
“They were on two doorknobs. They were also on the drill.”
My heart was in my throat. “Were there any others on the drill?”
“Just his.”
“I guess you guys better get a warrant.”
I don’t believe I ever spoke sadder words.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY Labiche was not only in my office, he was hooking one haunch on the corner of my desk, flipping a half dollar and catching it. “Good detective work, Robey.”
“Which detective work?”
“Bringing down that snooty ass-wipe on Loreauville Road.”
“Levon Broussard?”
“Him and his wife both think their shit doesn’t stink.”
“What did you hear?”
“He’s in custody. He’ll probably bail out this afternoon. From what I understand, you nailed his dick to his forehead. I guess this might screw up his wife’s rape claim, too.”
“What does one have to do with the other?”