The New Iberia Blues (Dave Robicheaux 22)

“Early this morning. She was beaten to death in her trailer. Her killer pressed a Christmas-tree star on her forehead.”

His face seemed poached, the color fading, his teeth showing behind his lips. His eyes were green marbles. “Same guy who did Lucinda Arceneaux?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“What about her kid?”

“The kid is all right. Sean McClain took her to the grandmother’s place.”

“Witnesses?”

“None we could find.”

“How bad was it?”

“As bad as it gets.”

He folded his deck chair and picked up his book and cradled his ice bucket with one arm. “I want to see the crime scene.”

“You know the rules.”

“Forget I asked,” he said. “I’ll handle it by myself.”

• • •

WHEN WE ARRIVED at the trailer park, the sun was low on the horizon, orange and dust-veiled. There were no children at play. I took down the crime scene tape on the small gallery and opened the door to Hilary Bienville’s trailer with a key Helen had given me. Clete and I stepped inside, both of us with latex on. Clete shone his flashlight on the broken glass, the smears and splatter on the walls, the broken tab

le and chairs. “Who was the responder?”

“Sean McClain.”

“Wasn’t he the responder on the Devereaux homicide?”

“More or less.”

“No tie there?”

“No.”

“The door was key-locked?” he asked.

“Right.”

“So it wasn’t a barroom john? It was somebody she trusted?”

“That’d be my guess.”

“The baby must have been crying when he left, but he locked up the place anyway?”

“What are you thinking?” I said.

“The guy didn’t want Hilary found right away, but he didn’t care if the baby sweltered to death or choked on her vomit.”

“The guy who killed Hilary doesn’t care about anything or anyone,” I said.

Clete clicked off his flashlight. “I’ve seen enough.”

“What do you make of it?”