Robicheaux (Dave Robicheaux 21)

“When Rowena told me about the dream, I began to think maybe Nightingale wasn’t her attacker, or maybe there was more than one attacker, somebody who held her down. I know a guy who used to work for Nightingale. He gave me the names of almost everybody on his payroll. That’s how I made the connection between Kevin Penny and Rowena’s dream.”

“Go on.”

“I went to see him. Nobody answered. The door was unlocked. I opened it and went inside. That’s when I heard him.”

“Heard him?”

“He was alive. Moaning. His wrists were bolted to the floor, above his head, like the hanged man in the tarot deck.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He was choking on his vomit. The drill was hanging out of his ear. I removed it and turned his cheek to let his mouth drain. Then he died.”

“What did you do next?”

“I left.”

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

He brushed at his nose. “I don’t know.”

“Your lawyer will tell you that ‘I don’t know’ is not the way to win people’s hearts and minds.”

“I told myself Penny had it coming. There wasn’t any point in my getting involved.”

“You left your prints at the scene. Wouldn’t it be better to explain your presence there than to flee?”

“I wasn’t thinking, Dave. His eyes were rolled in his head. His face was contorted in a death mask. It was horrible.”

“You saw the work of the death squads in El Salvador and Guatemala. I don’t think you rattle that easily.”

His hands were high on the bars, his head down. “It wasn’t my best day.”

“You had doubts about Jimmy Nightingale’s guilt?”

His gaze remained on the floor. His hair was uncut, hanging in his eyes.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” I said. “You didn’t want to let Nightingale off the hook?”

“He took her to the boat. He got her drunk. He was doing everything he could to get in her pants.”

“That doesn’t make him a rapist.”

“If Nightingale didn’t rape her, he knew Penny did.”

“Not if Nightingale was passed out.”

“Why not join his defense team?”

“I don’t have to be here,” I said.

Somebody slammed a gate. Somebody else dragged a baton across a row of bars. Another someone was yelling gibberish from a cell. Think hell is just in the next world? Visit your average county bag or rental prison.

“I’ve written about the Jeff Davis Eight,” Levon said. “Look in on Rowena, will you?”

“Sure.”

“Tell Nightingale this doesn’t change anything. He’s a liar and a fraud, and I’m going to prove it to the world. I hate that son of a bitch.”