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I waited until quitting time. No call. The next day was Saturday.
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I tried again Monday morning.
“She’s out,” the secretary said.
“Did she get the message I left Friday?” I asked.
“I think she did.”
“When will she be back?”
“Anytime now.”
“Can you have her call me, please?”
“She’s just been very busy, sir.”
“So are we. We’re trying to catch a murderer.”
Then I felt stupid and vituperative for taking out my anger on a secretary who was not to blame for the problem.
Regardless, I received no return call. Tuesday morning I went into Helen’s office. Her desk was covered with paperwork.
“You want to take a ride to Baton Rouge?” I asked.
Connie Deshotel’s office was on the twenty-second floor of the state capitol building, high above the green parks of the downtown area and the wide sweep of the Mississippi River and the aluminum factories and petroleum refineries along its shores. But Connie Deshotel was not in her office. We were told by the secretary she was in the cafeteria downstairs.
“Is there a line to kiss her ring?” Helen asked.
“Excuse me?” the secretary said.
“Take it easy, Helen,” I said in the elevator.
“Connie Deshotel was born with a hairbrush up her ass. Somebody should have straightened her out a long time ago,” she replied.
“You mind if I do the talking?” I asked.
We stood at the entrance to the cafeteria, looking out over the tables, most of which were occupied. Connie Deshotel was at a table against the back wall. She wore a white suit and was sitting across from a man in a blue sports coat and tan slacks whose thinning hair looked almost braided with grease.
“You make the gel head?” Helen said.
“No.”
“Don Ritter, NOPD Vice. He’s from some rat hole up in Jersey. I think he’s still in the First District.”
“That’s the guy who busted Little Face Dautrieve and planted rock on her. He tried to make her come across for him and Jim Gable.”
“Sounds right. He used to shake down fudge packers in the Quarter. What’s he doing with the attorney general of Louisiana?”
“Go easy, Helen. Don’t make him cut and run,” I said.
“It’s your show,” she said, walking ahead of me between the tables before I could reply.
As we approached Connie Deshotel, her eyes moved from her conversation onto my face. But they showed no sense of surprise. Instead, she smiled good-naturedly.
“You want some help with access to AFIS?” she said.
