Pegasus Descending: A Dave Robicheaux Novel (43 page)

“That’s my granddaughter’s name. Why you want to know?” he said.

I opened my badge holder and hung it out the window. “My name is Dave Robicheaux. I’m with the Iberia Sheriff’s Department. I thought she might have some information that could be helpful to us,” I said.

The black man wore old slacks and tennis shoes, but his shirt was pressed, his back erect. The distrust in his eyes was unmistakable. “She’s nine years old. What information she gonna have?”

“It concerns evidence she and two other children may have found at a crime scene,” I said.

“You talking about the Lujan farm?”

“I need to talk to your granddaughter, sir.”

“Maybe I need to call my lawyer, too.”

I pulled my truck in his driveway and cut the engine. I opened the door and stepped out on the grass. “She and her friends were playing in a plywood fort by Bello Lujan’s back fence. Mr. Lujan was murdered. Where’s your granddaughter?”

“She don’t know nothing about no murder.”

I could feel my patience draining and my old nemesis, anger, blooming like an infection in my chest. Like most southern white people, I did not like paying the price for what my antecedents may have done.

“The man who killed Bello Lujan is still out there. You want him prowling around your neighborhood? You want him looking for your granddaughter, sir?” I said.

He spiked his clippers into the lawn and blotted his neck with a folded handkerchief. “Come wit’ me. They in the backyard,” he said.

I followed him around the side of the house. The three children I had seen flying a kite behind Bello’s property were playing croquet in the shade of oak trees. “You guys remember me?” I said.

They looked at one another, then at Chereen’s grandfather. “Tell him what he want to know,” he said.

I squatted down so I was eye level with the children. “When y’all were having your picnic at your fort, you opened a can of tuna fish, didn’t you?” I said.

All three of them nodded, but their eyes didn’t meet mine. I pointed to the little boy who had opened the can. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Freddy.”

“What did you use to open the can, Freddy?”

“Can opener,” he replied.

“Was it an unusual can opener?” I said, smiling at him now.

“A little bit, maybe,” he said.

“Where’d you get it?” I said.

“I found it,” Chereen said, before her friend could answer. “In the field behind the horse barn.”

“Do you still have it?”

“It’s at the fort. Wit’ the crucifix and the broke chain it was on,” she said.

“A crucifix and a chain? Those things and the can opener were all together?” I said.

“Yes, suh, lying in the weeds. Not far from the fence,” Freddy said.

“I’m glad you guys found and saved those things for me. But you should have told me this yesterday. A man was killed and his killer is still out there, maybe preparing to hurt someone else. When I asked y’all if you had been inside the tape, you told me you hadn’t. So I had to figure all this out on my own. By keeping silent about the things you had found, you were telling me a lie. Indirectly, you were helping a very bad man get away with a terrible crime.”

“They got the point,” the grandfather said.

When I stood up, I could hear my knees pop. “How old are you, sir?” I asked.

“Sixty-one,” he replied.

I wanted to ask him how much value he set on pride. Was it worth the innocent lives of others in danger? I wanted to ask him if he thought he could negotiate with the kind of evil that dwells in a man who could tear a fellow human being apart with a steel pick. I wanted to tell him I was not the source of his discontent and enmity and that as a child of poor and illiterate Cajuns I shared his background and had done nothing to warrant his irritability.

I had all these vituperative thoughts, but I expressed none of them. Instead, I shook his hand without his having offered it. He stared at me blankly.

“Will you accompany me and the children to their fort, sir?” I said.

He brushed some garden cuttings off his shirt with the backs of his fingers. “Yeah, I could use a break. I’ll get some Popsicles out of the icebox to take along. Appreciate the job you doing even though I don’t probably show it,” he said.

A
FTER
I
DROVE WITH THE CHILDREN
and their grandfather to the plywood fort, I returned to the office and logged the neck chain, crucifix, and the small P-38 army-issue can opener into an evidence locker. Then I called Helen Soileau at home.

“Bello Lujan’s killer is a guy from the Islands. He’s a friend of Lefty Raguza,” I said.

“How do you know?” she said.

“Some kids playing on Bello Lujan’s property found a chain and crucifix and G.I. can opener by Bello’s back fence. I saw this guy wearing this stuff the night I had a run-in with Lefty at that zebra club in Lafayette.”

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“There’s no question about it. I figure Bello broke the chain from the guy’s neck and it fell down inside his shirt. It didn’t fall onto the ground until he was almost to the fence.”

“That doesn’t put the guy at the murder scene. Whitey Bruxal was Bello’s business partner. It’s not improbable his hired help hung around Bello’s stable. But if we can put the neck chain and whatever with the scrapings from under Bello’s nails, we might have something. Find out where the gumball is and bring him in.”

I called Betsy Mossbacher on her cell phone. She picked up on the second ring.

“I need to find the guy from the Islands who works for Whitey Bruxal. His hair looks like a braided mop somebody dipped in a grease bucket. Know who I’m talking about?” I said.

“He’s an illegal by the name of Juan Bolachi. He’s got the smarts of a used Q-tip. What do you want him for?”

“He may have been involved in the murder of Bello Lujan.”

“Our surveillance indicates he already blew town. Good luck finding him. He mucks out stables anywhere between Hialeah and Belmont Park and a couple of quarter-horse tracks in the Southwest. You’re sure this is the guy?”

I called Helen again at her house, even though it was Saturday and I knew my obsessiveness was beginning to test her patience. “The guy from the Islands already split. I’ve got an address for him in Lafayette. Maybe we can match DNA from some items in his residence with the scrapings from—”

“Ease up, bwana. It’s starting to get away from you.”

“I’ll work on it this weekend. On my own time.”

“The evidence you’ve found is one nail in the coffin. But we’re going to need six more like it. Now cool your jets, Streak.”

In terms of the evidentiary aspects of the case, she was right and it was pointless to argue with her. But Helen believed in the viability of the legal process much more than I did. If the building that you wish to see demolished already has a crack in it, why wait on time and decay to finish the job? I tried another tack before she could hang up.

“I think I know how Crustacean Man died,” I said. “Monday morning I want to get a search warrant on the Lujan and Bruxal homes and Slim Bruxal’s fraternity house.”

I heard her sigh. “What do you have?”

“Monarch Little says Slim and Tony and their friends used baseball bats in a beef with some soldiers behind a nightclub. I think they used one on Crustacean Man as well. Koko will back us up on the warrant.”

“Why would college kids deliberately murder a derelict?”

“Why did they gangbang Yvonne Darbonne when she was stoned and drunk and already traumatized by rape? Because they’re sociopaths. Because their parents should have used better rubbers,” I replied.

“Get the warrants,” she said.

Chapter
24

W
E HAD THE WARRANTS
by 11 a.m. Monday. We coordinated with both the Lafayette P.D. and the Lafayette Parish Sheriff’s Department and arranged to serve all three search warrants simultaneously to ensure that no one at any of the three locations notified the other targets we were on our way.

At exactly 2:45 p.m. Helen and two plainclothes descended on the Lujan home, Lafayette Parish detectives searched the Bruxal home, and Joe Dupree at the Lafayette P.D. accompanied me and Top, our retired NCO, to Slim Bruxal’s fraternity house.

Summer school was out of session and the white three-story Victorian home that had been the second-to-last stop in the short life of Yvonne Darbonne was almost empty. The air-conditioning units in the windows were turned off, either to save electricity or perhaps because they were broken, and the entire building seemed to radiate heat and the smell of moldy clothes and spoiled food someone had forgotten to empty from a garbage container. In fact, without the forced humor and irreverent shouting that passed for camaraderie among the usual residents, the house was a dismal and depressing environment, as though the floors and water-stained wallpaper and dark corridors contained no memories worth remembering and had served no purpose higher than a utilitarian one.

A thick-bodied, crew-cut kid with green and red tattoos on both arms was reading a magazine on the back porch. He told us he couldn’t remember seeing any baseball bats on the premises.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Sonny Williamson.”

“You have a speed bag in the backyard, Sonny. You must have other sporting equipment here. Where would it be?” I said.

He lowered his magazine and studied the back hedge. “I got no idea,” he said.

“Get up,” Joe said.

“What?” the kid said. His close-cropped hair was oily and bright on the tips, his upper arms sunburned.

“You deaf as well as impolite?” Joe said.

“No,” the kid said, slowly rising to his feet.

“You’re going to give us the tour. If I think you’re concealing evidence in a homicide investigation, I’m going to turn your life into a toilet,” Joe said.

“What’s your problem, man?” the kid said.

“You are. I don’t like your tats. If you ask me, they really suck. Where’d you get them?” Joe said.

“In Houston.”

“You should get your money back. These guys using you for queer-bait?” Joe said.

“
Queer-bait?
What’s going—”

“Shut your mouth. Where are the baseball bats?” Joe said.

“There’s some shit out in the garage. You want to look through it, be my fucking guest,” the kid said.

“Thanks for your help. Now, sit down and don’t move until I tell you,” Joe said.

Just then Joe’s cell phone vibrated on his hip. He glanced at the incoming number on the digital display and took the call while Top and I went into the garage. The heat was stifling, the tin roof ventilated by rust against a white sun, nests of mud daubers caked on the rafters.

“There it is,” Top said, pointing to a canvas duffel bag stuffed with baseball bats.

“Take them out to the car, will you, Top? I want to have a talk with the kid on the porch,” I said.

“You believe he’s really a college student?” he asked.

“Sure, why not?”

“I joined the Crotch because I didn’t think a university would accept a guy like me,” he said, hefting the duffel by its strap onto his shoulder. “I ended up at Khe Sanh. I think I screwed myself.”

“It could have been worse.”

“How?”

“You could be an alumnus of a fraternity like this one,” I said.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, the collection of aluminum and wood bats rattling against his back.

I walked back into the yard. The sun had gone behind a cloud and the wind was blowing in the trees. The kid reading the magazine glanced up at me. His eyes had the tint and complexity of clear blue water, devoid of thought or moral sentiment.

“Show me around the inside, will you, Sonny?” I said.

He tossed his magazine aside and walked ahead of me. But before I entered the house, Joe Dupree stopped me. He had just put away his cell phone and seemed to be puzzling through the conversation he’d just had. He gestured for me to follow him back into the yard, out of earshot of Sonny Williamson. “That was a friend of mine at the courthouse. Trish Klein just pleaded no contest on the shoplifting charge, paid a fine, and went back on the street,” he said.

“Have you gotten any reports of crimes committed against Bruxal or his interests?” I said.

“None,” he said.

“Maybe she wasn’t using the jail as an alibi after all.”

“I’m still convinced her people were the ones who creeped Bruxal’s house,” he said.

“You hear anything from the Feds?” I asked.

“A couple of calls from this Mossbacher woman. She seems on the square, but she doesn’t know any more than we do.”

“You got anybody tailing Trish Klein?”

“With our budget for overtime? We don’t have the manpower to patrol our own parking lot,” he replied. “You about to wrap it up here?”

“Just about,” I said.

I can’t tell you exactly why I wanted to go inside the fraternity house with the kid named Sonny Williamson. Maybe, like most people, I wanted to believe in the Orwellian admonition that human beings are always better than we think they are. Ask a street cop how often he has glanced in his rearview mirror at a handcuffed suspect whose clothes are stippled with his victim’s blood, hoping to catch a glimmer of humanity that will dispel his growing sense that not all of us descend from the same tree.