Pegasus Descending: A Dave Robicheaux Novel (40 page)

“Where is he, ’Ball?” I said.

“In the bat’room. He wasn’t ready for it. He didn’t have no tolerance.”

The bathroom door was ajar. I eased it open and saw Monarch in the tub, shirtless, his eyes closed, pillows stuffed around him so he would not slip below the waterline and the melting ice that covered his chest. I could see the hype marks inside his right arm.

“Brown skag?” I said.

“Yes, suh.”

“Who shot him up?”

“Himself. Monarch still a king. Don’t matter what people do to him. He was born a king.”

I opened my cell phone and called for an ambulance. While I was talking I heard Sno’ball pour a sack of ice into the tub.

“Did Herman give him the dope?” I said.

She pursed her lips and made a twisting motion in front of them, as though she were locking them with a key. “Bust me if you want. But I stayed wit’ him. You want to talk to Herman, Herman ain’t here. Herman ain’t never here. Y’all don’t like this house, Mr. Dave, burn it down. But don’t pretend y’all don’t know what goes on here.”

“What time did Monarch get here?”

“Eight-t’irty.”

“You’re sure. It wasn’t earlier, it wasn’t later?”

“I just tole you.”

Ten minutes later Acadian Ambulance pulled Monarch out of the tub and loaded him onto a gurney. I walked with them to the back of the ambulance. Monarch’s eyelids suddenly clicked open, just like a doll’s. “What’s happening, Mr. Dee?” he said.

“Your soul just took an exploratory ride over the abyss,” I replied.

“Say again?”

“If you die, I’m going to kick your butt,” I said.

“You’re an unforgiving man,” he said.

I pulled one of his tennis shoes off his foot.

“What you doing?” he said.

I watched them drive away with him. Monarch’s tennis shoe felt sodden and cold and big in my hand. It was a size twelve, larger, I was sure, than the imprints stenciled on the concrete pad in Bello Lujan’s stable. “Tell me again, Sno’ball. What time did Monarch get here?” I said.

“It was eight-t’irty. Some guys dropped him off on the corner. They’d been drinking. I know the time, ’cause I looked at my watch and wondered why Monarch was drinking so early in the morning. He come walking down the street and I axed him that. He said his mama died and would I tie him off.”

“You shot him up?”

“No, Monarch is my friend. And I ain’t gonna say no mo’ ’bout it.”

So the combination shooting gallery and crack house would not be an alibi for Monarch Little. But for all practical purposes, the size of his huge pancakelike feet and his obvious grief over his mother’s death had eliminated him as a viable suspect in the homicide of Bellerophon Lujan.

“Am I going down on this, Mr. Dave?” Sno’ball asked.

“Don’t let me catch you near this house again.”

“Herman ain’t big on the word ‘no.’”

“Tell Herman that of this day he has a bull’s-eye tattooed on his forehead.”

She laughed to herself, looking down the street at the grocery store and a skinny kid trying to pick up Monarch’s weight set. The sun was just breaking out of the mist, shining through the tree over the kid’s head.

“You eat lunch with cops?” I asked.

She fixed her hair with one hand. “If they paying,” she said.

We drove to Bon Creole, way out on St. Peter’s Street, and had po’boy sandwiches, then I drove her back into New Iberia’s inner city and left her on a street corner used by both pimps and dealers. It was a strange place to deliver a young woman who I believed to be a basically decent and loyal human being. But it was the world to which she belonged, and for those who lived in its maw, its abnormality was simply a matter of perception.

I
ARRIVED AT
the department shortly after noon. Helen had just returned from New Orleans, where she had been attending a meeting of Louisiana law enforcement administrators on civil preparedness. She caught me in the hallway and walked with me to my office. “What did you get on Bello’s homicide?” she asked when we were inside.

She had not yet had a chance to talk with Koko Hebert or Mack Bertrand. I told her everything I knew about the initial investigation at the crime scene, then told her about Monarch Little overdosing.

“You’re excluding him?” she said.

“At least for the time being. He may have had a window of opportunity, but there’s no evidence to put him at the crime scene.”

“But Valerie Lujan thinks Monarch did it?”

“If there weren’t people of color around for her to blame her problems on, she’d probably kill herself.”

“You’ve got somebody in mind for this, Dave. I can see it in your face.”

“I stoked Whitey Bruxal up. I told him Bello was going to roll over on him. The possibility that Whitey took him out doesn’t make me feel very good.”

“Before you climb on a cross, you might consider this. It was a premeditated act. The killer hated Bello and wanted him to suffer. The killer also knew Bello’s routine. Maybe the perp nursed a grudge for years. Bello had that kind of influence on people. Maybe Bruxal didn’t have anything to do with it.”

The phone on my desk rang. It was Mack Bertrand, calling from the crime lab.

“We have prints from several areas on the pick, some good, some bad,” he said. “Most of them were probably left there by the same individual. Regardless, we got no hits with AFIS.”

“Not even possibilities?”

“Nothing.”

I had felt my hopes rise, then fade. “So maybe our suspect is a local with no record,” I said.

“Could be. Bello was a sexual predator.”

“You think this is a revenge killing, pure and simple?”

“I’m at a loss on this whole investigation, Dave, I mean, into the Lujan boy’s death and Crustacean Man and the suicide of the Darbonne girl. I’ve come around to your way of thinking. It’s all part of one piece, but I don’t see the key.”

“Helen’s in my office now. I’ll bring her up to date and get back to you later,” I said.

“Something bothers me about the prints on the pick,” Mack said. “The steel head looks like it’s been partially wiped off. The same with the bottom of the handle. But the prints on the middle of the handle are defined and unsmudged. You following me?”

“I’m not sure.”

“If someone wanted to wipe fingerprints off a murder weapon, in this case a pick, wouldn’t he want to wipe off the entire weapon—both the handle and the head? I think an individual wearing gloves sharpened the pick and later used it to kill Bello. When he swung the pick, he smudged the prints on the bottom of the handle. That’s just speculation, of course. My wife says I spend too much time in my head with this stuff.”

No, you don’t, Mack, I thought.

Helen had been sitting on the corner of my desk, on one haunch, as she always did when she was in my office. After I hung up, I told her what Mack had said. I could see the frustration grow in her face. “Lonnie Marceaux is going to have a field day with this,” she said.

“What does this have to do with Lonnie?”

“He’s hired an ad firm in Baton Rouge to build him up as a crusading prosecutor surrounded by drunken and corrupt flatfeet. I think he also wants to hand me my ass.”

“Maybe I should have a talk with him.”

She pointed a finger at me. “That’s the last thing you’re going to do. You copy that, bwana?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Because if bwana not copy, bwana gonna have the worst experience in his life.”

Don’t contend, don’t argue, I heard a voice say inside me. “How did the civil preparedness meeting go?” I asked.

She had not expected my response. She tilted her head sideways, almost looking at me in a new way, her eyes taking on a strange lavender cast that was both sensual and curious, as though I were of romantic interest to her. I felt my cheeks color.

“We toured the levees. A one-hundred-sixty-mile-
an-hour storm will turn New Orleans into a bowlful of oil and black sand,” she said. She squeezed my shoulder and looked me in the face. “No matter how this plays out, Streak, I don’t want you beating up on yourself anymore. Even though I yell at you sometimes, you’re one of the best people I’ve ever known.”

I
SPENT THE NEXT HALF HOUR
cleaning out paperwork from my intake basket, putting off an inevitable stage in the investigation that I was not looking forward to. Finally I picked up the phone and called Cesaire Darbonne at his home. How do you tell a father whose daughter has died of a gunshot wound in his driveway that he is a possible suspect in a homicide? As Mack Bertrand said, how much grief does one man need?

“This is Dave Robicheaux, Mr. Darbonne,” I said. “I’d like to return your daughter’s diary if you’re going to be home this afternoon.”

“I got to go to the grocery store, but if I’m not home, I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“I’d rather give it to you in person.”

“Yes, suh, ’bout an hour from now okay?”

“I’ll see you then. Thanks for your goodwill, Mr. Darbonne,” I said.

I eased the receiver back into the cradle, a terrible sense of discomfort seizing my chest. Oftentimes in an investigation involving a violent crime, when the degree of injury and the desire for revenge can last a lifetime, what people do not say is more important than what they do say. Rape victims want to see the perpetrator’s nails ripped out. Relatives of homicide victims, regardless of their religious principles, struggle a lifetime with their anger and desire for revenge, even after the perpetrator is dead, almost as though his specter has taken up residence in their homes.

Cesaire Darbonne had not inquired about any new details we may have discovered regarding his daughter’s death. Even though the fatal shooting of Yvonne Darbonne had gone down as a suicide, wouldn’t the father have asked if I had learned who drove her home on that terrible day, who had given her the gun, who had filled her young body with drugs and booze? I tried to think of an explanation for his lack of curiosity. I didn’t want to think the thoughts I was thinking.

I called Mack at the lab. “How well do you know Cesaire Darbonne?” I said.

“He’s a distant cousin of my wife. Why?”

“I just talked with him. He showed no apparent interest in any details we might have discovered about his daughter’s death.”

“He’s a simple man, Dave. For a guy like Cesaire, the government is an abstraction. He lost his livelihood as a sugar farmer because of decisions somebody made in Washington. He said if he hadn’t been looking for work the day his daughter died, he would have been home to take care of her. I suspect he feels like a windstorm blew through his life and flattened everything around him.”

“Have you ever known him to be violent or vengeful?”

“He used to run a bar. About fifteen years ago, a couple of black guys tried to rob him. I think Cesaire fired a gun in the air and chased them off. I don’t know if you’d call that violence or not.”

“Thanks, Mack.”

After I hung up I removed Yvonne Darbonne’s diary from my desk drawer and read again through the entries that alluded to her love affair with the unnamed young man who had “cheeks red as apples.” One passage in particular seemed to speak worlds about both the nature of their relationship and the poetic soul of the Cajun girl who waited tables at Victor’s and dreamed of studying journalism at the university in Lafayette. She had written of a female seducer and an unwilling boy finally submitting on a bed of “blue-veined violets.” Then there were two quoted lines that suggested benign domination but domination nonetheless:

Hot, faint, and weary with her hard embracing, Like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling.

I had read them before, but I couldn’t remember where. I punched in a Google search on the department’s computer and came up with Shakespeare’s narrative poem
Venus and Adonis
.

What did it all mean? Probably nothing of an evidentiary nature, but it did lend further credibility to the fact that Tony Lujan had homoerotic tendencies and they accounted in part for his dependent relationship with Slim Bruxal.

I placed the diary in a brown mailing envelope and signed out a cruiser.

It had started to rain again when I drove up the Teche on the broken two-lane back road that led past the sugar mill. The mill was as big as a mountain against the sky, gray and strung with wisps of smoke. Down below, across the road, the community of dull green frame houses by the bayou glistened in the rain, their dirt yards as shiny and hard-looking as old bone. I parked in Cesaire Darbonne’s driveway and tapped on his front door. Through the screen I could see him drinking coffee in his kitchen, a radio playing on a shelf, his eyes staring out the back window at the rain falling on the bayou.

He walked to the front door, his eyes showing neither interest nor apprehension at my presence on his small gallery. When he unlatched the screen, I saw the chain of heart-shaped scars wrapped across the back of his left hand and around his forearm. “Would you like to have some coffee wit’ me, Mr. Robicheaux?” he asked.

“I’d appreciate that,” I replied.

He walked ahead of me into the kitchen. The interior of his home was spotless, the furniture free of dust, his dishes in a plastic rack by the sink, the kitchen linoleum drying from a recent mopping.

“I used to fix coffee and cinnamon toast every afternoon at t’ree when Yvonne was going to school,” he said. “I don’t fix cinnamon toast no more, but I still drink coffee every day at t’ree o’clock. I drip it one tablespoon at a time, just like my daddy done.”

I sat at his kitchen table and placed Yvonne’s diary, still inside the brown envelope, on top of the table while he prepared coffee and hot milk for me at the drainboard. I could feel sweat start to break on my forehead. I did not want to hurt this man.

He walked toward me, the spoon jiggling slightly in the saucer, his eyes concentrated on not spilling the coffee.

“I need to ask you where you were early this morning,” I said.

His eyes lifted into mine with an acuity and sense of recognition I never want to see in a man’s face again. “You t’ink I’m the one done that to Bello Lujan?” he said.