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“No, I asked Mr. Abelard some questions, and he lied to me. That’s obstruction.”
Her eyelids fluttered as though the fluorescent lights in the room were short-circuiting. “All right, I’m not going to get into procedural problems here. The man with the bandage on his hand?”
“Gus Fowler.”
“This guy Fowler, you think he was one of the guys you shot on the river?”
“I can’t swear to it.”
“Did you run him?”
“He has no record of any kind.”
“Go to Abelard’s place and pick him up.”
“Pick him up for what?”
“I don’t care. Make up something. When has legality been a problem for you? I’ll talk to the sheriff in St. Mary.”
“What about Robert Weingart?”
“What about him?”
“Jewel said he told someone Bernadette Latiolais was a candidate for the box.”
She looked around the room, still blinking. “That’s disturbing. I can’t make sense of this. There’s a land swindle or scam of some kind involved, but there’s something perverse and sadistic going on as well. It doesn’t fit together.” She lifted her gaze, staring straight into my eyes. “Unless?”
“What?”
“I’m not objective. I’ve already proved that,” she said.
“Not objective about what, Helen?”
“Carolyn Blanchet.”
“Go on.”
“She’s a dominatrix. I’ve been told stories about her sessions in the French Quarter.”
In the silence, I could see a flush spreading across her throat.
“You think Carolyn is capable of murder?”
“You tell me. She was a bitch when she came out of the womb. I hate this stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“All of it. Everything we do for a living. I’m tired of living in a sewer. I’m tired of seeing innocent people get hurt. Go see if you can find Gus Fowler. I’m going to talk to the state attorney’s office and try to get to the bottom of the land deal.”
She got up from her desk and looked out the window at the bayou, her back stiff with anger or revulsion, I couldn’t tell which.
“We’re still the good guys,” I said.
“You know how many unsolved female homicides there are in Louisiana?”
“No.”
