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“I don’t even know what the term means.”
“You have a reason for staring into my face like that?” Wyatt said.
“Where’d you grow up?”
“Northeast Texas, just south of the Red.”
“You have unusual eyes.”
“What’s my place of birth have to do with my eyes?”
“Nothing. I have a feeling you want trouble. I don’t think you’ll be happy until you get it.”
Wyatt peeled the paper off a lollipop and stuck the lollipop in his jaw. “There is one other thing you can tell me, because it’s perplexed me for years. It’s got to do with the unpleasant subject of incest and such. I heard this tale about a mountain boy in Kentucky who married a girl from the next hollow and learned on their wedding night she was a virgin. In the morning he sent her back to her folks. When his daddy asked him how come he kicked her out, the boy said she was a virgin. His pap said, ‘You done the right thing, son. If she ain’t good enough for her own family, she ain’t good enough for ours, either.’ Is that story true?”
“Get him out of here,” Younger said.
THE NEXT DAY the sheriff called Albert’s house. By chance I answered the phone. I wished I hadn’t. “Where is the Horowitz woman?” he asked.
“I think she went to the airport early this morning,” I said.
“She did what?”
“She’s making a documentary,” I said. “Can I help with something?”
“The abandoned truck that woman shot up is registered to an old man in a remote place in West Kansas. The locals found him in his barn yesterday. The coroner said he’d been dead for months. Where did Horowitz go?”
“I don’t know. What do you want her for?”
“Last night we pulled a floater out of the Clark Fork. He was peppered with rounds from a nine-millimeter.”
“The guy Gretchen shot?”
“How would I know? One in the head, one in the throat, one in the chest. Is that the way she does it? Let me share my feelings with you, Mr. Robicheaux. You guys are starting to be a real nuisance.”
“Why us?”
“We didn’t have this mess on our hands until you and your friends arrived.”
“Run your bullshit on somebody else, Sheriff.”
“What did you say?”
“Bill Pepper was a dirty cop and on a pad for Love Younger, and you didn’t do anything about it. You turned over the investigation of a young girl’s death to a bum. In the meantime, somebody put an electronic bug in Clete Purcel’s cabin.”
“When did this happen?”
“Probably a few days ago. What’s the deal on the floater?”
“His name was Emile Schmitt. He was a private investigator in Fort Lauderdale and Atlantic City. He got his license yanked when he was charged with battery involving the apprehension of a female bail skip.”
“How did the owner of the pickup die?”
“The decomposition was too great. The coroner couldn’t be sure. There was a strand of looped fence wire close by.”
“Do you believe we’re dealing with Asa Surrette?” I asked.
“Why would a Kansas sex pervert and serial killer be mixed up with a PI from the East Coast?”
