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“The dog named Vick?” Clete said to Varina.
“Pierre said Vick had distemper,” she said. “That’s a lie. You saw him. He was fine. Either Pierre or his grandfather did something to him, maybe hurt him in some way, then had him injected. I feel so bad about Vick, I want to cry. I hate Pierre and his hypocrisy and his arrogance and his two-thousand-dollar suits and his greasy smell. I can’t stand the thought that I let him kill my dog.”
“No good comes of blaming ourselves for what other people do,” Clete said. “I understand you’re filing a civil suit against the sheriff’s department over an incident at your father’s place. The incident involved Dave Robicheaux. That creates a conflict of interest for me, Ms. Leboeuf. I’d like to help you, but in this instance, I don’t think I can.”
“I’ve already dropped the suit. It’s not worth the trouble,” she replied.
Don’t do what you’re about to do, a voice in Clete’s head told him.
“My husband is a pervert. I will not discuss the kinds of things he has asked me to participate in,” she said. “He wasn’t drunk when he did it, either. Frankly, I feel sick at the mention of this. The fact that he’s considered a great artist locally is laughable. He has no understanding of intimacy or mutual respect inside a relationship. That’s why he studied commercial art. It has no emotion. If he ever painted what was on his mind, he’d be put in a cage.” Her eyes were moist, her small fists knotted in her lap.
“Maybe I can recommend a couple of PIs in Lafayette,” Clete said.
“I’m going to be staying at my father’s house at Cypremort Point. I’m at the end of my rope, Mr. Purcel. I have to take care of my father, and I can’t be looking over my shoulder in fear of my husband. If you’d rather I go somewhere else, I will. I’ve made my livelihood in electronic security, but that will not protect me from a man who would euthanize a loving pet who was part of our household for five years. I feel such rage right now, I can’t express it. If you want us to leave, please say so. But don’t try to push me off on some seedy private investigator in Lafayette.”
Clete could feel a strand of piano wire tightening along the side of his head. “You dropped the suit against the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department?”
“I already told you that.”
“What if I give you my cell phone number and the number of my answering service? Plus, I can have a talk with your husband about your dog.”
“It’s a bit late for that. Furthermore, I’d like more than talk when it comes to Pierre.”
“Pardon?” Clete said.
“That’s wishful thinking on my part. Don’t pay attention to what I just said.”
“Ms. Leboeuf sometimes speaks sharply, but she’s a religious woman, Mr. Purcel, even though she might get mad at me for saying that,” the minister said.
“My fee is seventy dollars an hour plus expenses,” Clete said.
“You’ve been very kind,” Varina said, her eyes crinkling.
“You’ll probably find you don’t need me, Ms. Leboeuf,” Clete said. “In this kind of situation, a little time passes, and the lawyers agree on division of the assets, and both parties walk away and start new lives. At least the smart ones do.”
“You sound like a man of the world,” she said.
“Dave Robicheaux and I were plainclothes detectives at NOPD. Neither of us is now. That says more than I like to think about,” he replied.
When they had gone and Clete had shut the door behind them, he remained standing in the center of the room, as though he couldn’t remember where he was or what had just transpired in his life. The wind was whipping the rain against his window, obscuring the bayou and the drawbridge and smudging the lights on the cars crossing the steel grid. His stomach was churning, and pinpoints of sweat were breaking on his forehead. He wondered if he was coming down with the flu.
Gretchen opened the door without knocking. “Why did you let her do that to you?”
“Do what?”
“She’s a cunt.”
“Don’t use that word.”
“That’s what she is.”
“That word is never used in this office. Not by me, not by the skells, not by you, not by anyone in our acquaintance. That one doesn’t flush. Do you understand that?”
“All right, she’s the C-word from head to toe, from the way she points her boobs at you to the way she crosses her legs to give you a little preview of what might be waiting. You don’t know how mad you make me.”
“I’m your employer, Gretchen, and you’re my employee. I think you’re really a good kid, but while we’re on the job, you need to show some respect.”
“Don’t you call me a kid. You don’t know what I’m capable of.” Her cheeks were wet, her bottom lip trembling. Her down-in-the-ass jeans hung low on her hips, exposing her navel; her broad shoulders were rounded, her eyes filled with sorrow. In that moment, she l
