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“Nothing. And neither are you. You’re going to get a lot of track between you and Louisiana. And you’re going to do that now. You’re not going back to the Abelard house and give that black woman a lot of grief. You’re changing your zip code as we speak.”
“If that’s what you say.”
Clete’s gaze lifted into the trees, his eyelids fluttering. “I don’t recommend equivocation and a lack of specificity at this time. Are we connecting here?”
“Yeah.”
“Say again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man. Take this in the right spirit. Those guys you fried at Raiford? You’ll see them again.”
“They’re dead. We electrocuted them.”
“That’s the point,” Clete said. “Turn east at the four-lane. You got a straight shot all the way to Pensacola.”
CHAPTER
20
CLETE’S CALL ASKING me to run the tag of the Florida pickup had come in before Helen and I left the department for Carolyn Blanchet’s house outside Franklin. It had been no problem to run the tag; nor had it been a problem to call a friend in the state attorney’s office in Tallahassee and ask for a background check on Andy Swan. But I did not tell Helen what I had done until we were almost at the Blanchet home. My timing was not only bad, I think it contributed in the worst possible way to the events that were about to follow.
“Not only is Clete conducting his own investigation in St. Mary Parish, but you’re helping him, even asking a personal favor from the Florida state attorney’s office?” Helen said.
Her knuckles had whitened on the steering wheel. When I didn’t reply, she shot me a look, the cruiser slipping over the yellow stripe.
“We’re all on the same side, Helen.”
“Clete’s on his own side, and so are you.”
“Not so.”
“I’m really pissed off, Dave.”
“I gather that.”
“Not adequately. Believe me, we’ll talk more about it later.”
She turned off the four-lane and drove down a service road to the Blanchet property and the lovely green arbor in which Layton’s tribute to himself still rose through the oaks like a Tudor castle covered with cake icing. We were not the only people there. Two SUVs and a silver sedan with a United States government plate were coming toward us through the two columns of oaks that lined the driveway, the sedan out in front. Helen stuck her hand out the window and signaled the driver to stop.
“Helen Soileau, Iberia Parish sheriff,” she said. “What’s going on?”
The driver of the sedan was young and wore a white shirt and tie and had a fresh haircut. “Nothing now,” he said. “We just got served. Somebody ought to explain to you people that this isn’t 1865.”
“Carolyn Blanchet got an injunction against the United States government?” Helen said.
“You got it. We’ll be back later. Have fun, Sheriff,” the driver said.
I watched the convoy drive onto the service road. “She probably got a local judge to create some temporary obstacles for the IRS or the SEC. But they’ll cut through it with a couple of phone calls,” I said.
“Anything these guys wanted from her has already gone through a shredding machine. Carolyn Blanchet gets what she wants and makes few mistakes.”
I hated to ask the question that had been hanging in the air every time Carolyn Blanchet’s name was mentioned. “Helen, how well do you know her?”
“If you haven’t heard, Pops, when we’re on the job, I’m your boss. You don’t question your boss about her personal life. That said, when we’re off the job, you still do not question me about my personal life. Understood?”
