Purple Cane Road (Dave Robicheaux 11)

“Gable has personal knowledge about my mother’s death. I’m absolutely convinced of that, Boots.”

She nodded, almost to herself, or to the room, rather than to me, then began slicing a roast on the counter for our sandwiches. She cut harder, faster, one hand slipping on the knob of bone she used for a grip, the blade of the butcher knife knocking against the chopping board. She slid the knife in a long cut through a flat piece of meat and halved and quartered a bloodred tomato next to it, her knuckles whitening. Then she turned around and faced me. “What can I tell you? That I loathe myself for the fact I slept with him? What is it you want me to say, Dave?”

At the end of the week I received a call from Connie Deshotel at the office.

“Dave, maybe we’ve had some luck. Do you know of a recidivist named Steve Andropolis?” she said.

“He’s a spotter, what used to be called a jigger.”

“He’s in custody in Morgan City.”

“What for?”

“Possession of stolen weapons. He says he knows you. This is his fourth time down. He wants to cut a deal.”

“Andropolis is a pathological liar.”

“Maybe. He says he has information on the Zipper Clum murder. He also says he knows how your mother died.”

The sun was high and bright in the sky, the tinted windows of the cars in the parking lot hammered with white daggers. I felt my hand tighten on the telephone receiver.

“How did he come by his information?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Two detectives from NOPD are going to interview him this afternoon. You want to meet them there?”

“Is one of them Ritter?”

“Probably. He caught the case.”

“What’s Andropolis’ bond?”

“None. He’s a flight risk.”

“I’ll make arrangements to go over there in the next two or three days. Thanks for passing this on, Ms. Deshotel,” I said.

“You seem pretty casual.”

“His crime isn’t in our jurisdiction. I don’t have the legal power to do anything for him. That means he wants to use me against somebody else. Let him sweat awhile.”

“You should have been a prosecutor,” she said.

“What’s he have to offer on Remeta?” I said as an afterthought.

“Ritter thinks he might have sold Remeta the weapon used in the Clum killing. Maybe he knows who ordered the hit.”

“The piece came from a sporting goods break-in. The thieves were black kids from the St. Thomas Project. Andropolis is taking Ritter over the hurdles.”

“I thought I might be of help. Good luck with it, Dave. Give my best to your wife,” she said, and quietly hung up.

That evening the sky was filled with yellow and red clouds when Clete Purcel and I put a boat in the water at Lake Fausse Pointe. I opened up the outboard down a long canal that was thickly wooded on each side. Green logs rolled against the bank in our wake and cranes and snow egrets and great blue herons lifted into the light and glided on extended wings out over the bay.

We passed acres of floating lilies and lotus flowers that had just gone into bloom, then crossed another bay that flowed into a willow swamp and anchored the outboard off a stand of flooded cypress and tupelo gums and watched our wake slide between the trunks that were as gray as elephant hide.

Clete sat on a swivel chair close to the bow, his porkpie hat low on his eyes, his blue denim shirt damp with sweat between the shoulder blades. He flipped his casting rod with his wrist and sent his treble-hooked balsa-wood lure arching through the air.

“How’s it going with you and Passion?” I asked.

“Very solid, big mon,” he replied, turning the handle on his spinning reel, the lure zigzagging through the water toward the boat.