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“Simple people like straight lines.”
“I think Tillinger was carrying the Luger to protect Bella, not to take her life.”
“How would Tillinger know the killer was headed to her place?”
“Maybe Tillinger was following him. He probably would have made a good cop. Helen, Tillinger is a human being. The guy we’re dealing with doesn’t have a category.”
My notebook was open on the desk blotter. She looked at the copy I had made of Tillinger’s attempt to identify the killer. “What do you make of that?”
“I think the Aryan Brotherhood is a player,” I said. “Maybe there’s a link between them and our jail scandal. Maybe ‘UNC’ means ‘University of North Carolina’ or ‘uncle.’ Maybe ‘PRO’ means ‘producer.’ You can go into meltdown thinking about all this.”
“Let’s go back to our jail scandal,” she said. “What’s the link between it and the murder of Lucinda Arceneaux?”
I shook my head, my eyes neutral.
“Don’t give me that,” she said. “I know you, Dave.”
“I don’t have any answers,” I said. “I wish I did.”
She waited a long time before she spoke again. “Any word from Iberia General?”
“The neurologist said the inside of Tillinger’s head is egg batter.”
She looked at the pad again. “I’d like to kick Sean McClain in the butt.”
“He’s a good kid.”
“But he messed up royally.” She paused. I knew she wanted to say more, all of it bad.
“I messed up, too,” I said.
She scratched her forearm, her face empty. Then she got up and stood behind my chair. I never knew what Helen would do when she was behind me. Sometimes her silence scared me. As I’ve said, several people lived inside her, some dangerous, some adventurous, some erotic and almost predatory. People talk about coming out of the closet. Helen had a warehouse the size of a city block to come out of. She gripped my shoulders, sinking her fingers into the tendons. I could smell the freshness in her clothes, almost feel the heat in her body.
“There are two people in this world who know every thought you have, Pops,” she said. “One of them is Clete Purcel. Guess who the other is?”
“No idea,” I replied.
“What’s Bailey think?”
“Our guy is a trophy killer in reverse. Or maybe he has boxes of panties and bras and wallets. He’ll keep doing it until we burn his kite.”
She drew a fingernail across my neck. “Go out on your own and I’ll have your head in a basket.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” I said.
• • •
I WASN’T DOING WELL with Bella’s death. I went to a noon meeting, owned up to an accidental slip—although I wasn’t sure it was entirely accidental and said so—and dropped by St. Edward’s Church, and I still wasn’t doing well. I went back to the department and talked with Bailey, who was getting nowhere on the forensics with the St. Martin authorities, primarily because there weren’t any; then I called Clete Purcel and told him everything and arranged to meet him in Red Lerille’s Health and Racquet Club at five-thirty p.m.
When I walked into the gym, Clete was hitting the heavy bag, whamming it on the chain with sky-blue bag gloves, wearing baggy knee-length red Everlasts and a sleeveless gray LSU jersey soggy with sweat. He smelled like an elephant in rut.
“Big mon,” he said, steadying the bag.
“You got something for me?” I said.
“A kid named Spider Dupree. He did a three-bit in Soledad. The AB made him give back his ink. They did a few other things to him, too. Let me hit the shower.”
“Think you need it?”
