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"Nothing?"
"He was killed with a .22. He probably knew the shooter. That's about it," I said.
I could see her anger at losing months of work rekindling itself in her face. She bit a thumbnail and looked at the rain hitting on the window, then looked back at me. "I came here for another reason as well. In fact, I'm off work today," she said.
"What is it?"
"You already have breakfast?" she said.
"No," I lied.
"It's on me," she said.
"Your accent seems to come and go."
"See, I knew you were a smart man." She smiled, her mouth pressed into a small flower.
We got a take-out order at Victor's Cafeteria on Main and drove across the bayou to a giant crab-boil pavilion next to an exhibition hall where, believe it or not, Harry James, Buddy Rich, Willie Smith, and Duke Ellington's arranger, Juan Tizol, performed during the 1950s. The camellias along the bayou were in bloom and looked like red paper flowers inside the grayness of the day, and a tug was moving a huge iron barge loaded with dredged mud through the drawbridge up by Burke Street.
"So what's the haps?" I said.
"I came down on you pretty hard when you and Purcel scared Fat Sammy out of town," she replied.
"Your feelings were understandable."
There was a fried-egg-and-ham sandwich on French bread in her Styrofoam container but she hadn't touched it. "I talked to Purcel. He told me about your wife's death," she said.
I raised my chin to straighten my collar and looked at the tug moving the barge down the bayou.
"So what I'm saying is "
"Got it. You don't need to explain."
"How about shutting up a minute? My husband was killed in Iraq in '91. He was in a tank. The army said he died instantly but I don't believe them," she said.
"I'm sorry."
"For a long time I thought I saw him at a football game or in a bar or in a crowd at a department store. That ever happen to you?"
"No."
"You're lucky. What I'm saying, Robicheaux, is I think you're a good cop and you don't need another cop yelling at you." She picked up her sandwich and took a bite out of it. I heard the tug blowing its whistle at the next drawbridge.
"It's Friday. You want to hang around town, maybe catch dinner and go to a movie?" I said.
"What's playing?" she asked.
"Really hadn't checked it out."
"Father Dolan's being arraigned at eleven," she said.
"I thought you'd cut loose of Father Jimmie's problems."
"A girl's got to do something for kicks," she said, and watched me over the top of her cup while she drank her coffee.
Dale Louviere liked being a city police officer, especially since he had been promoted to plainclothes and given his own office, a travel account, and membership in two civic clubs. The pay was nothing to brag about, but good things happened if a man did his job and accorded people respect and made sure he was available to serve in whatever capacity he was needed.
Anything wrong with that? he asked himself.
