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“I think he was lying. I also think he was mocking me.”
“What happens in New Orleans is not our business.”
“I went there on my own time.”
“You identified yourself at Dupree’s office as a member of this department. That’s why he called here and yelled in the phone for five minutes. I don’t need this kind of crap, Pops.”
“That old man is corrupt.”
“Half the state is underwater, and the other half is under indictment. Our own congressional representative said that.”
“What was the name of the death camp Dupree was in?” I asked.
“What difference does it make?”
“Was it Ravensbrück?”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“I’m almost sure it was Ravensbrück. I read a feature on Mr. Dupree in the Advocate about two years ago.”
“Why do you care which camp he was in? Dave, I think you’re losing your mind.”
“Ravensbrück was a women’s camp, most of them Polish Jews,” I said.
“I’m about to throw a flowerpot at your head,” she said.
“I don’t think the problem is mine,” I replied.
I went back to my office. Ten minutes later, Helen buzzed my extension. “I Googled Ravensbrück,” she said. “Yes, it was primarily a women’s extermination camp, but a camp for male prisoners was right next to it. The inmates were liberated by the Russians in 1945. Does this get World War Two off the table?”
“That old man is hinky, and so is his grandson,” I replied.
I heard her ease the receiver into the phone cradle, the plastic surfaces clattering against each other.
IT STARTED RAINING again that night, hard, in big drops that stung like hail. Through the back window, I could see leaves floating under the oaks and, in the distance, the drawbridge at Burke Street glowing inside the rain. I heard Molly’s car pull into the porte cochere. She came through the back door, a damp bag of groceries clutched under one arm, her skin and hair shiny with water. “Did you see my note on the board?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Clete called,” she said, putting down her groceries on the breakfast table.
“What did he want?”
She tried to smile. “I could hear music in the background.”
“He was tanked?”
“More like his boat left the dock a little early.”
“Was he in town or phoning from New Orleans?”
“He didn’t say. I think Clete is trying to destroy himself,” she said.
When I didn’t reply, she began putting away the groceries. She had the arms and shoulders of a countrywoman, and when she set a heavy can on a shelf, I could see her shirt tighten on her back. She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and looked at me. “I don’t want to see you lying on a gurney in an emergency room with a bullet hole in your chest again. Is that wrong?” she said.
“Clete’s in serious trouble, and he doesn’t have many friends.”
“Don’t get mixed up in it.”
