“What do you want this time?” I asked him.
“Y’all gonna try to put the Devereaux job on me?”
“You’d be a logical candidate.”
“On what grounds?”
“You already burglarized his house?”
“I did that for Miss Lucinda.”
“Maybe you shoved a baton down his throat for the same reason.”
“That’s how he went out?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Did you mutilate Travis Lebeau before he was dragged?”
“Where in the hell did you get that?”
“You used a quote from the book of Psalms about Jehovah breaking the teeth of His enemies.”
“That doesn’t mean I go around mutilating people.”
“You’re a nuisance, Mr. Tillinger. I wish you would go away.”
“The AB probably killed Travis. But I think the order came from Devereaux.”
“Devereaux was hooked up with the AB?”
“They kept his whores in line. How come you don’t know this?”
“I’m not that smart,” I said. I looked at the second hand on my watch. Eight seconds passed before he spoke again.
“I don’t want to go back to Texas, Mr. Robicheaux.”
“That’s not an unreasonable attitude.”
“Every night I dream about being injected.”
“I don’t have the power to influence your situation, sir.”
“You could get me to the right people. Actors, celebrities, hereabouts. People are making films all over the state these days.”
“A bartender in Lafayette told me you already knew those kinds of people.”
“Miss Lucinda knew them,” he said.
My attention was starting to fade.
“She was working on her genealogy,” he said. “She was an orphan. Her foster daddy is a preacher.”
“So?”
“She thought maybe she was related to a famous guy in Hollywood. She didn’t say who.”
“When you find out, tell me, will you?” I said. “I’m done here.”
“You’re a hard-nosed bastard.”
“Just self-destructive. You stole firearms out of Devereaux’s house. What do you plan to do with them?”
“Cancel the ticket of anyone who tries to take me back to Texas.”
Spoken like a real idiot, I thought. “Don’t call here again unless you have some useful information.”
I hung up. This time he didn’t call back. Helen opened my door. “The prints from the Devereaux crime scene are no help. The door key was clean. The killer was probably wearing gloves when he went inside. Anything on your end?”
“Tillinger called. He was on a cell phone. He’s not our guy.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He’s a five-star peckerwood. What you see is what you get.”
“You don’t believe he burned his family to death?”
“If I’d been on the jury, I’d have reasonable doubt.”
“So we’ve got nothing.”
“There’s Antoine Butterworth,” I said.
“Why Butterworth?”
“His soul probably resembles the La Brea Tar Pits.”
“What are you going to bring him in on?”
“He’s a long way from his usual resources,” I replied. “Let’s see how he likes being one of the little people.”
Chapter Thirteen
I called my friend the captain of the West Hollywood Station of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department and asked more specifically about Butterworth’s record. Butterworth’s reputation for deviancy was ubiquitous. But legend and legal reality don’t always coincide. Prostitutes told outrageous stories about him. One claimed he hung her from a hook and beat her bloody, but she had been in Camarillo twice and hadn’t filed charges. As gross as his behavior was, most of it seemed thespian, more adolescent and obscene than criminal.
“He’s never had to register as a sex offender?” I asked.
“Twelve years ago he got nailed on a statutory,” my friend said. “She was sixteen, although she looked twenty-five. The DA was going to put him away, but the girl got a big role in a South American film and left town.”
“Butterworth got her the role?”
“That’s how it usually works.”
“What’s the status on the charge now?”
“It doesn’t have one. The case died in the file drawer.”
“That’s all I need,” I said. “Thanks for the help.”
“I don’t see how I helped.”
“This is Louisiana, Cap. The language in our sex offender registry laws would give you an aneurism.”
By noon the next day I had a warrant for Butterworth’s arrest and a warrant to search Desmond’s house. I dialed Desmond’s unlisted number, hoping he would be there. Unfortunately, Butterworth answered.
“Is Desmond there?” I said. “This is Dave Robicheaux.”
“Oh, my favorite detective,” he replied.
“I need to speak to him, please.”
“He’s taking a break today and sailing. The light is all wrong for the scene we’re shooting, anyway. Could I be of assistance?”
“I have to take some photos from your deck. I’m putting together a report on the discovery of the Arceneaux body.”
“This isn’t about the telescope again, is it?”
“No, it has to do with tidal drift. Will you be there for the next hour?”
“I’ll make a point of it,” he said. “Ta-ta, cute boy.”
Bailey and I checked out a cruiser and headed for Cypremort Point, with me driving and Sean McClain following in a second vehicle. There was a heavy chop on the bay, the moss straightening in the trees and boats rocking in their slips like beer cans in a wave.
“I’m not sure what we’re doing, Dave,” Bailey said.
“We’re on shaky ground, but Butterworth doesn’t know it.”
She looked straight ahead, thoughtful. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”
“You ever hear of a rich man going to the chair or gas chamber or the injection room?” I said.
“I guess that doesn’t happen often.”
“It doesn’t happen at all.”
I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. “We cut the bad guys off at the knees, Bailey.”
“What we do is punish the people who are available,” she said.
I looked at her profile. She was one of those people whose composure and self-assurance gave no hint of arrogance or elitism. But I couldn’t forget that Ambrose Bierce, a war veteran, once defined a pacifist as a dead Quaker, and that Bailey was young for the job and I was old for it, and old for her, and on top of it I wondered if she didn’t belong in the public defender’s office.
“You’re a good fellow, Dave.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m a good judge of people.”
All my thought processes went down the drain.
As we neared the tip of the peninsula, I saw a solitary figure on the deck of Desmond’s house, the wind flattening his slacks and Hawaiian shirt against his body. He was playing his saxophone, obviously indifferent to the sounds of the surf and the wind and seagulls, the gold bell of the sax as bright as a heliograph in the sunlight.
“Why does that guy remind me of an upended lizard?” I said.
“Because he looks like one,” she replied.
I rang the chimes. When Butterworth answered, I stepped inside without being asked and held up both warrants. Bailey and Sean followed me. “You’re under arrest for failing to register as a sex offender, Mr. Butterworth,” I said. “Please turn around and place your hands behind you.”