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“Hell hath no fury,” he said.
“Not a good metaphor.”
“On the frontier, it was called cabin fever. Levon has a helium balloon for a head. His art comes first. He even tells people that at book signings. Some people want to save the world but don’t have time for their own family.”
“What are you saying, Doc?”
“The human spirit is frail. People believe whatever they need to believe. I feel sorry for all of them.”
* * *
THAT AFTERNOON, ALAFAIR was raking leaves in the backyard when she heard a vehicle come up the driveway and park under the porte cochere, as though the driver lived in the house. She walked around the side and saw a trim blond man get out of a red Honda that looked brand-new. He wore loafers and gray slacks and a long-sleeve purple shirt and a shiny black tie with a gold pin. His stomach was flat, his hair stiff with dressing of some kind, his hands
big, the knuckles pronounced. He was holding a clipboard. “Hi. I’m Detective Spade Labiche. I work with Dave.”
“He’s not here right now,” she said.
“Yeah, he caught the Broussard rape case, didn’t he? Did he see the doc yet?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I hope you don’t mind me parking under your porte cochere. I had my car waxed.”
“My car is parked on the street, so we don’t need the space right now,” she said.
The implication seemed to elude him. “This is a nice spot,” he said. “He put you to work? The old man.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“I’ve read a couple of your books. I thought you’d be typing instead of piling leaves.”
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m excluding Dave in the situation that took place out by Bayou Benoit.” His accent was bottom-of-the-bucket New Orleans.
“Why would Dave be here during work hours?” she said.
“He eats lunch at home some days, doesn’t he?”
“It’s after two.”
“I’ve never met a famous author. Where do you get your ideas?”
“I’ve never given it much thought. Do you want to leave a message?”
“Yeah, I could do it that way. You were an ADA in Portland, right? You know the ropes.”
“The ropes?”
“Whatever you want to call it. We’re all on the same side.” He looked away at the bayou, a little dreamy. He scratched at a mosquito bite on his neck and glanced at his fingertips. The day was warm. When the wind changed, his odor touched her face, a mixture of detergent and perspiration.
“We couldn’t get any prints off the Dartez door handle,” he said. “Maybe somebody wiped them off, or maybe his body was dragged over the handle. I tweezered up some broken glass from the ground and inside the truck. The lab found Dave’s prints on a couple of them. I know there’s an explanation. I just need to get the explanation into my paperwork.” He looked down as he pulled his tie taut on his shirtfront and, at the same time, took her measure from her breasts to her thighs.
“What’s your name again?” she asked.
“Call me Spade.”
“You’re giving me information civilians aren’t supposed to have.”
