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"That's it."
I watched him walk down the hall, grinning, his day back in place. Keep playing baseball, kid, and don't ever grow up, I thought.
Mack Bertrand, our forensic chemist, called me from the lab the next afternoon. "We've got a ballistics match on the .38," he said.
"How about latents?" I asked.
"They all belong to Pete Delahoussaye," he said.
"None on the rounds in the cylinder?" I asked.
"Absolutely clean. I think that gun was oiled and wiped down before it was fired."
"What did you get off the plastic cup?"
"Smudges that had dried dirt on top of them. I'm sure they were there long before our shooter arrived."
"Anything else?"
"The victim had shoe polish and grains of leather under the nails of his right hand. But we knew that at the crime scene. Except for the discarded weapon, I'd say our perp was a professional."
"Thanks, Mack. By the way, what would you say the value of the gun is?"
"It's a single-action army Colt, fairly rare. A lot of collectors have them. Maybe fifteen hundred dollars."
I walked down to Helen's office and opened the door. She was just getting off the phone. "I'd like to get a warrant on Dr. Parks's house," I said.
"Looking for what?" she asked.
"Mack Bertrand says there were leather scrapings under the victim's nails."
"Think Parks is our man?"
"He had both motivation and opportunity."
Her eyes searched my face. "That isn't what I asked," she said.
"I went out to his house yesterday. He didn't attempt to hide his hatred of the victim. He even wanted to know if Hebert suffered. Later I wondered if it was an act."
"Like he's trying to brass it out?"
"Maybe. What doesn't make sense is the shooter throwing the gun out his truck window right by the drawbridge. Unless he wanted us to find it."
"Why do perps do anything?" She glanced down at the legal pad by her telephone. "We ran the serial number on the gun. It's registered to a William Raymond Guillot. He lives in Franklin."
"Guillot?" In my mind's eye I saw a tall, gray-headed, crew-cropped man by a slat fence, lighting a string of firecrackers, pitching it into the air, while behind him a half-dozen thoroughbreds thundered back and forth across a pasture.
"You know him?" Helen said.
"If it's the same guy, I saw him with Merchie Flannigan at Castille Lejeune's place."
She bit down on the corner of her lip. "I think the ante just got raised on us," she said.
"Say again?"
"I checked out Hebert's liquor license with the state board. He didn't own the daiquiri shop. It's part of a corporation called Sunbelt Construction. Guess who's listed as the CEO?"
Before I could answer, she said, "You got it, bwana. Castille Le-Jeune. Hope you enjoy charging howitzers with a popgun."
