Purple Cane Road (Dave Robicheaux 11)

“Yeah, he called me up last night.”

Ritter brushed the detritus from his nails into the basket and folded his penknife and put it in his pocket. He crossed his legs and rotated his ankle slightly, watching the light reflect on his shoe shine. His hair looked like gelled pieces of thick twine strung back

on his scalp.

“The home invasion? That’s the break-in at Little Face Dautrieve’s place?” he said.

“Little Face says you planted rock on her. She’s trying to turn her life around. Why don’t you stay away from her?”

“I don’t know what bothers me worse, the bullshit about talking to Remeta or the injured-black-whore routine. You want to nail this guy or not?”

“You see Jim Gable?”

“What about it?”

“Tell him I’m going to look him up on my next trip to New Orleans.”

He chewed with his front teeth on something, a tiny piece of food perhaps.

“So this is what happens when you start over again in a small town. Must make you feel like staying in bed some days. Thanks for your time, Robicheaux,” he said.

I signed out of the office at noon and went home for lunch. As I drove down the dirt road toward the house, I saw a blue Lexus approach me under the long line of oak trees that bordered the bayou. The Lexus slowed and the driver rolled down her window.

“How you doin’, Dave?” she said.

“Hey, Ms. Deshotel. You visiting in the neighborhood?”

“Your wife and I just had lunch. We’re old school chums.”

She took off her sunglasses, and the shadows of leaves moved back and forth on her olive skin. It was hard to believe her career in law enforcement went back into the 1960s. Her heart-shaped face was radiant, her throat unlined, her dark hair a reminder of the health and latent energy and youthful good looks that her age didn’t seem to diminish.

“I didn’t realize y’all knew each other,” I said.

“She didn’t remember me at first, but … Anyway, we’ll be seeing you. Call me for anything you need.”

She drove away with a casual wave of the hand.

“You went to school with Connie Deshotel?” I asked Bootsie in the kitchen.

“A night class at LSU-NO. She just bought a weekend place at Fausse Pointe. You look puzzled.”

“She’s strange.”

“She’s a nice person. Stop being psychoanalytical,” Bootsie said.

“She was having lunch in Baton Rouge with an NOPD cop named Don Ritter. He’s a genuine lowlife.”

She hung a dishrag over the faucet and turned toward me and let her eyes rove over my face.

“What did he do?” she asked.

“He twists dials on black hookers. Helen says he used to extort gays in the Quarter.”

“So he’s a dirty cop. He’s not the only one you’ve known.”

“He’s buds with Jim Gable.”

“I see. That’s the real subject of our conversation. Maybe you should warn me in advance.”